The furnishings of the gun-room were the usual cabinets and appliances for the chase and kindred sports. One wall, however, was hung with objects not commonly seen in an English country-seat. These were two complete Klondike outfits, a woman's and a man's.
In making the round of the chamber, Ainsworth came to them. He stopped and scrutinized the peculiar accoutrements attentively.
There were guns, rifles, revolvers, and sheath-knives strung up, all showing the scar and stain of hard service. Woolen Arctic garments, oilskins, gauntlets, and parkas, with two buckskin skirts and sweaters, hung in rows from the pegs. A duffle of moccasins, leggings, pack-straps, tump-lines, dunnage-bags and dog-whips filled a large, deep shelf, while two pairs of snowshoes, taller than a man, stood in the corner.
The lawyer examined each article in turn and suddenly faced round to Trascott.
"Can the Klondike have cracked his brain?" he asked seriously. "They say it drives scores of strong men mad!"
The curate shook his head as his glance also travelled to the equipments of the trails.
"Britton's as sane as yourself," was his answer, "but I know he is in dire anxiety. His face showed that when we came in."
Steps sounded in the library, seeming like unnecessarily loud ones calculated to give warning or to hide some other noise. The curtains, screening the doorway of the two rooms, parted very slightly, and Britton entered, throwing the hangings in place behind him.
"Ah!" grunted Ainsworth, "here you are with your insolence–"
"Don't!" interrupted Britton, putting out a hand. "Don't talk in that strain. Let me tell you a story which will explain this attitude of mine and a good many other things besides." He sat down at the cartridge table and placed his elbows on it. An expression of bitterness and renunciation rested on his face.