The Amateur Gentleman

"I--I'll k-kill you!"

"Murder me?"

"It's no m-murder to kill your sort!"

"Then it is a pistol you have in your pocket, there?"

"Yes--l-look at it!" And, speaking, Barrymaine drew and levelled the

weapon with practised hand. "Now listen!" said he. "You will s-sit

down at that table there, and write Gaunt to g-give me all the time

I need for your c-cursed interest--"

"But I tell you--"

"Liar!" cried Barrymaine, advancing a threatening step. "Liar,--I

know! Then, after you've done that,--you will swear never to see or

c-communicate with my sister again, or I'll shoot you dead where you

stand,--s-so help me God!"

"You are mad," said Barnabas, "I am not your creditor, and--"

"Liar! I know!" repeated Barrymaine.

"And yet," said Barnabas, fronting him, white-faced, across the table,

"I think--I'm sure, there are four things you don't know. The first

is that Lady Cleone has promised to marry me--some day--"

"Go on to the next, liar!"

"The second is that my stables were broken into again, this

morning,--the third is that my horse killed the man who was trying

to hamstring him,--and the fourth is that in the dead man's pocket

I found--this!" And Barnabas produced that crumpled piece of paper

whereon was drawn the plan of the stables.

Now, at the sight of this paper, Barrymaine fell back a step, his

pistol-hand wavered, fell to his side, and sinking into a chair, he

seemed to shrink into himself as he stared dully at a worn patch in

the carpet.

"Only one beside myself knows of this," said Barnabas.

"Well?" The word seemed wrung from Barrymaine's quivering lips. He

lay back in the rickety chair, his arms dangling, his chin upon his

breast, never lifting his haggard eyes, and, almost as he spoke, the

pistol slipped from his lax fingers and lay all unheeded.

"Not another soul shall ever know," said Barnabas earnestly,

"the world shall be none the wiser if you will promise to stop,--now,

--to free yourself from Chichester's influence, now,--to let me help

you to redeem the past. Promise me this, and I, as your friend, will

tear up this damning evidence--here and now."

"And--if I--c-can't?"

Barnabas sighed, and folding up the crumpled paper, thrust it back

into his pocket.

"You shall have--a week, to make up your mind. You know my address,

I think,--at least, Mr. Smivvle does." So saying, Barnabas stepped

towards the door, but, seeing the look on Barrymaine's face, he

stooped very suddenly, and picked up the pistol. Then he unlocked

the door and went out, closing it behind him. Upon the dark stairs

he encountered Mr. Smivvle, who had been sitting there making

nervous havoc of his whiskers.

"Gad, Beverley!" he exclaimed, "I ought not to have left you alone

with him,--deuce of a state about it, 'pon my honor. But what could

I do,--as I sat here listening to you both I was afraid."