"The devil!" cried my father.
And then he started and whirled toward the door.
"Ned! Ives!" he called sharply. "What the devil is going on outside?" and the three of them had darted into the hall.
Clear and distinct through the quiet night had come a shriek and the report of a pistol.
I started to follow them, but Mademoiselle had laid a hand on my arm, and was pointing to the table. I lifted first one and then the other of the two pistols that were lying there. Neither was primed. Neither was loaded.
"The third one," she said quietly, "Mr. Lawton took. No, no," she added, as I started toward the door, "Stay here, Monsieur. It is not your affair."
XVIII
She still stood looking at the pistols on the table. Was she thinking, as I was, of the irony, and the comedy and the tragedy that had been so strangely blended in the last hour? Slowly she turned and faced me, her slender fingers tugging aimlessly at her handkerchief. For a moment her eyes met mine. Then she looked away, and the color had deepened in her cheeks.
"So," said Mademoiselle, "It is almost over. Are you not glad, Monsieur, that it is finished?"
The wick of a candle had dropped to the wax, and was spluttering fitfully. Mechanically I moved to fix it.