"Absurd!"
"Impossible!" exclaimed his hearers, in succession.
"It is neither absurd nor impossible. The horse was killed by a pistol-shot, and he fell into the power of the Russians."
"Do you mean to say," asked the colonel, slowly, after a very ominous and unpleasant pause, during which Berkeley's paleness increased, and he tugged his moustache with his effeminate, girlish-like fingers, feeling evidently the loss of a toothpick, with which, like other fops, he soothed his leisure moments; "do you mean to say that this event was not accident, but design?"
"Can't tell, 'pon my life—aw—haw—would rather not say anything about it—it was doocid odd, anyway," drawled Berkeley, applying himself to the champagne again.
"Mr. Berkeley, I must insist upon your explaining."
"Can't say, I repeat—his pistol exploded—the bullet went through his horse's head——"
"Killing it on the spot?"
"Of course—aw—of course."
"What could be his reason——"