‘Yes, said Marcia; ‘I do.’
‘Then don’t make any such absurd statement as that you think bloodshed picturesque. The world’s got beyond that. Do you object if I smoke? I don’t think it would hurt this place to have a bit of fumigating.’
She nodded permission, and watched him silently as he rolled a cigarette and hunted through his pockets for a match. The coat did not reward his search, and he commenced on the waistcoat. Suddenly she broke out with—
‘What’s that in your pocket, Mr. Sybert?’
A momentary shade of annoyance flashed over his face.
‘It’s a dynamite bomb.’
‘It’s a revolver! What are you carrying that for? It’s against the law.’
‘Don’t tell the police’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve always liked to play with fire-arms; it’s a habit I’ve never outgrown.’
‘Why are you carrying it?’ she repeated.
Sybert found his match and lighted his cigarette with slow deliberation. Then he rose to his feet and looked down at her. ‘You ask too many questions, Miss Marcia,’ he said, and he commenced pacing back and forth the length of the dirt floor.