But Miss Peavey was a woman of spirit. Her hat was still in the ring. She clutched the necklace in a grasp of steel, and her fine eyes glared defiance.
“You think yourself smart, don’t you?” she said.
Psmith eyed her commiseratingly. Her valorous attitude appealed to him. Nevertheless, business was business.
“I am afraid,” he said regretfully, “that I must trouble you to hand over that necklace.”
“Try and get it,” said Miss Peavey.
Psmith looked hurt.
“I am a child in these matters,” he said, “but I had always gathered that on these occasions the wishes of the man behind the gun were automatically respected.”
“I’ll call your bluff,” said Miss Peavey firmly. “I’m going to walk straight out of here with this collection of ice right now, and I’ll bet you won’t have the nerve to start any shooting. Shoot a woman? Not you!”
Psmith nodded gravely.
“Your knowledge of psychology is absolutely correct. Your trust in my sense of chivalry rests on solid ground. But,” he proceeded, cheering up, “I fancy that I see a way out of the difficulty. An idea has been vouchsafed to me. I shall shoot—not you, but Comrade Cootes. This will dispose of all unpleasantness. If you attempt to edge out through that door I shall immediately proceed to plug Comrade Cootes in the leg. At least, I shall try. I am a poor shot and may hit him in some more vital spot, but at least he will have the consolation of knowing that I did my best and meant well.”