In Mr. Tregonell's dressing-room there was the light of lamp and fire, deep into the small hours. The master of the house lolled, half-dressed, in an armchair by the hearth; while his friend, Captain Vandeleur, in smoking-jacket and slippers, lounged with his back to the chimney-piece, and a cigarette between his lips. A whisky bottle and a couple of siphons stood on a tray on the Squire's writing-table, an open pistol-case near at hand.
"You'd better lie down for a few hours," said Captain Vandeleur. "I'll call you at half-past five."
"I'd rather sit here. I may get a nap by-and-by perhaps. You can go to bed if you are tired: I sha'n't oversleep myself."
"I wish you'd give up this business, Tregonell," said his friend, with unaccustomed seriousness. "This man is a dead shot. We heard of him in Bolivia, don't you remember? A man who has spent half his life in shooting-galleries, and who has lived where life counts for very little. Why should you stake your life against his? It isn't even betting: you're good enough at big game, but you've had very little pistol practice. Even if you were to kill him, which isn't on the cards, you'd be tried for murder; and where's the advantage of that?"
"I'll risk it," answered Leonard, doggedly, "I saw him with my wife's hand clasped in his—saw him with his lips close to her face—close enough for kisses—heard her promise him an answer—to-morrow. By Heaven there shall be no such to-morrow for him and for me. For one of us there shall be an end of all things."
"I don't believe Mrs. Tregonell is capable"—began Jack, thoughtfully mumbling his cigarette.
"You've said that once before, and you needn't say it again. Capable! Why, man alive, I saw them together. Nothing less than the evidence of my own eyes would have convinced me. I have been slow enough to believe. There is not a man or woman in this house, yourself included, who has not, in his secret soul, despised me for my slowness. And yet, now, because there is a question of a pistol-shot or two you fence round, and try to persuade me that my wife's good name is immaculate, that all which you have seen and wondered at for the last three weeks means nothing."
"Those open flirtations seldom do mean anything," said Jack, persuasively.
A man may belong to the hawk tribe and yet not be without certain latent instincts of compassion and good feeling.
"Perhaps not—but secret meetings do: what I saw at the Kieve to-day was conclusive. Besides, the affair is all settled—you and de Cazalet have arranged it between you. He is willing that there should be no witness but you. The whole business will rest a secret between us three; and if we get quietly down to the sands before any one is astir to see us no one else need ever know what happened there."