Flattened against the wall, close to the hinges of the door, Ford replied flippantly and defiantly:
“That makes conversation difficult, doesn't it?” he called.
There was a bursting report, and a bullet splintered the panel of the door, flattened itself against the fireplace, and fell tinkling into the grate.
“I hope I hit you!” roared the Jew.
Ford pressed his lips tightly together. Whatever happy retort may have risen to them was forever lost. For an exchange of repartee, the moment did not seem propitious.
“Perhaps now,” jeered Prothero, “you'll believe I'm in earnest!”
Ford still resisted any temptation to reply. He grinned apologetically at the girl and shrugged his shoulders. Her face was white, but it was white from excitement, not from fear.
“What did I tell you?” she whispered. “He IS mad—quite mad!”
Ford glanced at the bullet-hole in the panel of the door. It was on a line with his heart. He looked at Miss Dale; her shoulder was on a level with his own, and her eyes were following his.
“In case he does that again,” said Ford, “we would be more comfortable sitting down.”