“Are you sure, Mr. Winthrope?” asked Miss Leslie. “Men’s pockets seem so open. Twice I’ve had to pick up Mr. Blake’s locket.”
“Locket?” echoed Blake.
“The ivory locket. Women may be curious, Mr. Blake, but I assure you, I did not look inside, though–”
“Let me–give it here–quick!” gasped Blake.
Startled by his tone and look, Miss Leslie caught an oval object from the side pocket of the coat, and thrust it into Blake’s outstretched hand. For a moment he stared at it, unable to believe his eyes; then he leaped up, with a yell that sent the droves of zebras and antelope flying into the tall grass.
“Oh! oh!” screamed Miss Leslie. “Is it a snake? Are you bitten?”
“Bitten?–Yes, by John Barleycorn! Must have been fuzzy drunk to put it in my coat. Always carry it in my fob pocket. What a blasted infernal idiot I’ve been! Kick me, Win,–kick me hard!”
“I say, Blake, what is it? I don’t quite take you. If you would only–”
“Fire!–fire! Can’t you see? We’ve got all hell beat! Look here.”
He snapped open the slide of the supposed locket, and before either of his companions could realize what he would be about, was focussing the lens of a surveyor’s magnifying-glass upon the back of Winthrope’s hand. The Englishman jerked the hand away–