"Ah, come in, Belford."
A tremor seized me. He had not seen the paper. "I was looking for an oil can," said he. "Put it down somewhere just a moment ago. Here it is. Looks as if we'd have a little rain."
He took up a pistol and began to oil the lock, moving the hammer up and down to assure himself that it worked easily. "I guess that's all right. Now what did I do with that other pistol?"
"In my room," a voice replied. I turned about with a start. Mrs. Estell stood in the door. She bowed. A cool smile parted her pale lips.
"Bring it, please," said the Senator.
She dropped a graceful courtesy, one that might have been seen in the gracious days of our grandmothers, and ran up the stairway. When she returned the Senator was standing near the door, but she passed him and handed the pistol to me. She gave me a look, and if now her eyes were glad, they were glad like a fire that rejoices to burn. Just one look and then she bowed and withdrew without a word.
"Let me oil it and by that time the buggy will be ready," said the Senator. "I think you will find it all right," he remarked, as he returned the pistol to me. The negress appeared at the door. "Buggy ready? All right. Come, Belford."
Not a word was spoken until we were far into the town, and then the Senator said: "If there's but one he belongs to me. Do you understand?"
"Yes, but he doesn't belong to you unless you can shoot first."
He looked at me, and beneath his gray mustache was a smile as sharp as a sword.