"I ran away with Mrs. Bill, and Bill is naturally annoyed, so Bill is looking me up—in fact Bill——"
She could not catch the rest; she thought she heard Hank make a reference to "hell," but she hoped she was mistaken.
By and by the Duke's head appeared above the wall.
"I suppose," he said, "now that you know the worst, you will tell me this—when is Mr. Slewer going to call?"
She spoke over her shoulder, a convenient chrysanthemum with a pathetic droop claiming her attention.
"I know nothing of Mr. Slewer's plans," said she distantly.
It was such a long time before he spoke again that she thought he must have gone away, and she ventured a swift glance at the wall.
But he was still there with his mocking eyes fixed on hers.
"Perhaps we shall see him at the concert?" he suggested, "sitting in the front row with his tragic and accusing eyes reproaching me?"
"How can you jest?"—she turned on him in a fury—"how can you turn this terrible wrong into a subject for amusement? Surely you are not completely lost to shame."
He rested his elbow on the top of the wall and dropped his chin between his hands. When he spoke, it was less to her than to himself.
"Ran away with his wife, eh? Come, that's not so bad, but Bill couldn't have thought of that himself. He's got a scar along the side of his head—did you notice that Miss Terrill? No? Well, I did that," he said complacently. "Yet Bill didn't mention it, that's his forgiving nature. Did he tell you I jailed him for promiscuous shooting? Well, I did, and when the governor revised the sentence of death passed upon him, I organized a lynching party to settle with Bill for keeps.
"They smuggled him out of the gaol before my procession arrived. Bill never told you about that episode. H'm! that's his modesty. I suppose he's forgotten all these little acts of unfriendliness on my part. The only thing that worries him now is—put up your hands—quick!"
She saw the Duke's face suddenly harden, his eyes narrow, and heard his lazy drawl change in an instant to a sharp metallic command. Most important of all his right hand held a wicked looking revolver. She was standing before the conservatory door as the duke was speaking and apparently the revolver was pointed at her. A voice behind her reassured her.
"Say, Jukey," it drawled, "put down your gun—there's nothin' doin'."
She turned to face Mr. Slewer with his hands raised protestingly above his head, injured innocence in every line of his face, and hanging forward from the inside pocket of his jacket the butt of a Colt's revolver, half drawn.
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