“Sit down, father confessor, while I tell you the whole story,” he said with a mirthless laugh.
“There was a man named Marillier on the Congo. A blackguard of the worst description, and soon after I arrived in the country we came into contact. He was the most callous of all the brutes that go to make up Congo officialdom, and in those days I was not inured to sickening sights. One day I went to his station, and found him with his own hand flogging a young girl of about fifteen, one of his numerous native wives. He used the chicotte, a murderous instrument of torture, and the girl was half dead. I lost my temper, and seized the chicotte with which I gave him a little of what he had been giving the girl.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” Drake cried vehemently.
“I took the poor girl on to my own station, and that night Marillier turned up in a drunken rage. In his hand he carried a revolver, and commenced firing at me. I had no desire to die, so I took my own weapon and fired.”
Gaunt paused, and his breath came quickly.
“My shot reached home, and he died.”
“You were justified by every moral law,” Drake said quietly.
“So the officials seemed to think who investigated the matter, for I heard no more about it until last night when the Baron visited me,” Gaunt said grimly.
“I am confident that Lady Mildred will hold you justified when she hears your side of the story.”
“I hope so, but that isn’t the worst from her point of view. There is only one thing that I dread her hearing, and the Baron knows it.”