“Er—how do you do?” she said.
If she had not been an exceedingly pretty girl, one would have said that she spoke squeakily. The fighting spirit of the Bennetts, though it was considerable fighting spirit, had not risen to this emergency. It had ebbed out of her, leaving in its place a cold panic. She had seen this sort of thing in the movies—there was one series of pictures, The Dangers of Diana, where something of the kind had happened to the heroine in every reel—but she had not anticipated that it would ever happen to her: and consequently she had not thought out any plan for coping with such a situation. A grave error. In this world one should be prepared for everything, or where is one? The best she could do was to stand and stare at the intruder. It would have done Sam Marlowe good—he had now finished the synopsis and was skimming through the current instalment—if he could have known how she yearned for his return.
“I’ve brought the revolver,” said Mr. Peters.
“So—so I see!” said Billie.
Mr. Peters nursed the weapon affectionately in his hand. He was rather a shy man with women as a rule, but what Sam had told him about her being interested in his revolver had made his heart warm to this girl.
“I was just on my way to have a little practice at the range,” he said. “Then I thought I might as well look in here.”
“I suppose—I suppose you’re a good shot?” quavered Billie.
“I seldom miss,” said Jno. Peters.
Billie shuddered. Then, reflecting that the longer she engaged this maniac in conversation, the more hope there was of Sam coming back in time to save her, she essayed further small-talk.
“It’s—it’s very ugly!”
“Oh, no!” said Mr. Peters, hurt.
Billie perceived that she had said the wrong thing.
“Very deadly-looking, I meant,” she corrected herself hastily.
“It may have deadly work to do, Miss Milliken,” said Mr. Peters.
Conversation languished again. Billie had no further remarks to make of immediate interest, and Mr. Peters was struggling with a return of the deplorable shyness which so handicapped him in his dealings with the other sex. After a few moments, he pulled himself together again, and, as his first act was to replace the pistol in the pocket of his coat, Billie became conscious of a faint stirring of relief.
“The great thing,” said Jno. Peters, “is to learn to draw quickly. Like this!” he added, producing the revolver with something of the smoothness and rapidity with which Billie, in happier moments, had seen conjurers take a bowl of gold fish out of a tall hat. “Everything depends on getting the first shot! The first shot, Miss Milliken, is vital.”
Suddenly Billie had an inspiration. It was hopeless she knew, to try to convince this poor demented creature, obsessed with his idee fixe, that she was not Miss Milliken. Denial would be a waste of time, and might even infuriate him into precipitating the tragedy. It was imperative that she should humour him. And, while she was humouring him, it suddenly occurred to her, why not do it thoroughly.
“Mr. Peters,” she cried, “you are quite mistaken!”
“I beg your pardon,” said Jno. Peters, with not a little asperity. “Nothing of the kind!”
“You are!”
“I assure you I am not. Quickness in the draw is essential.”
“You have been misinformed.”
“Well, I had it direct from the man at the Rupert Street range,” said Mr. Peters stiffly. “And if you had ever seen a picture called Two-Gun Thomas….”
“Mr. Peters!” cried Billie desperately. He was making her head swim with his meaningless ravings. “Mr. Peters, hear me! I am not married to a man at Ealing West!”
Mr. Peters betrayed no excitement at the information. This girl seemed for some reason to consider her situation an extraordinary one, but many women, he was aware, were in a similar position. In fact, he could not at the moment think of any of his feminine acquaintances who were married to men at Ealing West.
“Indeed?” he said politely.
“Won’t you believe me?” exclaimed Billie wildly.
“Why, certainly, certainly,” said Jno. Peters.