Suddenly a glint of something strange caught
his eye. He started, but recovered himself quickly.
"I'll take your warning, Katherine. Here's my hand upon it."
A moment later, when he was alone, he uncocked the pistol--Dick's
pistol. The glint had not been imaginary. It was a percussion cap. With
trembling fingers he picked it off the nipple. He passed his hand across
his damp forehead, for he felt faint with dread. But the task had to be
accomplished. He unscrewed the ramrod and picked out the wad, a piece
of white paper which dropped on the floor. From the barrel held downward
a bullet dropped with a dead, fateful thud on the floor. More paper
wad--a slithering shower of gunpowder. He put the pistol down, and took
up the one he himself had used from the chair where he had thrown it. It
was unloaded. His eye fell on the bits of white paper. He picked them up
and unfolded them. The daily newspaper lay by the stove, with the corner
torn accusingly.
Then he understood. He sank into a chair, paralysed with horror.
Pages:
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107