Sibella’s manner suddenly became sly and calculating.
“What kind of a gun was yours, Chet?” she asked her brother.
“Oh, it was a .32, all right—an old Smith & Wesson revolver.” Chester was painfully ill at ease.
“Was it, indeed? Well, that’s that.” She turned her back on us and went again to the window.
The tension in the room slackened, and Von Blon leaned solicitously over the wounded girl and rearranged the pillows.
“Every one’s upset, Ada,” he said soothingly. “You mustn’t worry about what’s happened. Sibella’ll be sorry to-morrow and make amends. This affair has got on everybody’s nerves.”
The girl gave him a grateful glance, and seemed to relax under his ministrations.
After a moment he straightened up and looked at Markham.
“I hope you gentlemen are through—for to-day, at least.”
Both Vance and Markham had risen, and Heath and I had followed suit; but at that moment Sibella strode toward us again.