Mr. Gerzson drank up his tea and hastened home. Leonard advised Henrietta to go and sleep—and she really was very sleepy—while he went to the stables to see to the horses.
It was about midnight when he returned. He looked very tired, like one who has had a great deal of bustling about. He was alone in the drawing room, so he stirred up the fire, lit a cigar and waited in silence.
At half past two Mr. Gerzson rang the gate-bell; he entered the drawing-room very boisterously like one resolved to wake up the whole house. A little coffer hung upon his stunted arm, in the other hand he carried a double-barrelled gun, and from a pouch, fastened by straps to his shoulder, peeped forth two four-barrelled pistols.
"Why, plague take it!" laughed Hátszegi, "you are armed for a whole guerilla warfare."
"No more than Fatia Negra deserves," replied Mr. Gerzson with a sombre grimace. "Is your wife up and dressed?"
"I fancy she lay down ready dressed."
"All the better. It'll be as well if we start early."
"I hear the opening and closing of doors in her apartments, no doubt your ringing disturbed her. She will be here in an instant, for she is very impatient."
"That is only natural."
"And in the meantime, let us have something to strengthen the heart," said Hátszegi producing a flask of szilvapalinka[34] and filling his own and his guest's glass. "If you have a chance of shooting Fatia Negra, you must give me one half of the thousand ducats set upon his head, because I have abandoned this fine opportunity to you."