“So,” he said, “it was you. I thought I could not be mistaken. You foul brute, you’re not fit to live,” and he raised his pistol.
“You’re very free with your shooter,” said Collins coolly. “May I ask for an explanation?”
“It is no good my saying anything. Of course you will deny everything, and so will she, but I heard.”
“You will excuse me, but I haven’t the faintest idea what on earth you are talking about.” His face was stern. “We don’t want to rouse the whole house at this hour. Hadn’t you better tell me what the trouble is? In the first place, what are you doing here at all?”
“You know perfectly well. It’s no good lying. I heard everything and came down here to see you. You are not going out of this room alive.”
Collins slowly drew out his case, and lit a cigarette. He knew a hasty action might force the issue.
“What did you hear?” he asked, casually.
“Oh, it’s no good. I could not sleep, you know why. Then I thought I would try a whiskey, which I never touch as a rule, so I came down. As I passed Mabel’s bedroom, I heard talking and—I know I ought not to have done, but I listened.”
“If it interests you to know,” said Collins, “I do not even know where Miss Watson’s bedroom is, so if I were you, I should hesitate to make any insinuations.”
The other was shaken by his firm tones.