Billie looked up from her sketching-block with a start. It seemed to her that there was a note of anguish, of panic, in that voice. What her father could have found in the drawing-room to be frightened at, she did not know; but she dropped her block and hurried to his assistance.
“What is it, father?”
Mr. Bennett had retired within the room when she arrived; and, going in after him, she perceived at once what had caused his alarm. There before her, looking more sinister than ever, stood the lunatic Peters; and there was an ominous bulge in his right coat-pocket which to her excited senses betrayed the presence of the revolver. What Jno. Peters was, as a matter of fact, carrying in his right coat-pocket was a bag of mixed chocolates which he had purchased in Windlehurst. But Billie’s eyes, though bright, had no X-ray quality. Her simple creed was that, if Jno. Peters bulged at any point, that bulge must be caused by a pistol. She screamed, and backed against the wall. Her whole acquaintance with Jno Peters had been one constant backing against walls.
“Don’t shoot!” she cried, as Mr. Peters absent-mindedly dipped his hand into the pocket of his coat. “Oh, please don’t shoot!”
“What the deuce do you mean?” said Mr. Bennett irritably. “Wilhelmina, this man says that you told him you loved him.”
“Yes, I did, and I do. Really, really, Mr. Peters, I do!”
“Suffering cats!”
Mr. Bennett clutched at the back of his chair.
“But you’ve only met him once,” he added almost pleadingly.
“You don’t understand, father dear,” said Billie desperately. “I’ll explain the whole thing later, when....”