A stunning report, coming apparently from nowhere, shook the windows. Britton reeled, as a tuft of hair floated off from above his temple, and jumped like the recoil of a spring upon his would-be murderer. He dealt two sharp, quick blows before the weapon could be pulled again, and the thing was all over.
Morris lay in a quiet heap, with threads of white smoke drifting up from the powder-blackened hole in his pocket.
Britton rubbed the red welt along his scalp and nodded gravely to Ainsworth.
"You're my counsel in this matter, of course," he said. "Attend to whatever explanations are needed! Trascott, will you come with me?"
They elbowed out through the motley, clamorous, ever-increasing crowd that the pistol-shot had gathered.
"What do you mean to do?" asked the curate, anxiously.
"The hardest thing I ever did," Britton answered pitifully. "I want you, because I doubt if I can do it alone. I'm afraid of myself, Trascott!"
CHAPTER V.
They sought the concierge and met him, all flustered, coming out of the office by the side entrance on his way to the room of tumult which they had just quitted. Britton added to his cares by despatching him with a message to Maud Morris in the ballroom.
"Tell Mrs. Morris that I am waiting in her drawing-room," he said. "Ask her if she will take the elevator at once and see me on an important matter."