Mr. Bennett uttered a loud cry.
“Sweet spirits of nitre!”
Mr. Peters could make nothing of this exclamation, and he was deterred from seeking light, by the sudden action of his host, who, bounding from his seat, with a vivacity of which one could not have believed him capable, charged to the French window and emitted a bellow.
“Wilhelmina!”
Billie looked up from her sketching-book with a start. It seemed to her that there was a note of anguish, of panic, in that voice. What her father could have found in the drawing-room to be frightened at, she did not know; but she dropped her block and hurried to his assistance.
“What it is, father?”
Mr. Bennett had retired within the room when she arrived; and, going in after him, she perceived at once what had caused his alarm. There before her, looking more sinister than ever, stood the lunatic Peters; and there was an ominous, bulge in his right coat-pocket which betrayed the presence of the revolver. What Jno. Peters was, as a matter of fact, carrying in his right coat-pocket was a bag of mixed chocolates which he had purchased in Windlehurst. But Billie’s eyes, though bright, had no X-ray quality. Her simple creed was that, if Jno. Peters bulged at any point, that bulge must be caused by a pistol. She screamed, and backed against the wall. Her whole acquaintance with Jno. Peters had been on constant backing against walls.
“Don’t shoot!” she cried, as Mr. Peters absent-mindedly dipped his hand into the pocket of his coat. “Oh, please don’t shoot!”
“What the deuce do you mean?” said Mr. Bennett, irritably.
He hated to have people gibbering around him in the morning.
“Wilhelmina, this man says that you told him you loved him.”
“Yes, I did, and I do. Really, really, Mr. Peters, I do!”
“Suffering cats!”
Mr. Bennett clutched at the back of a chair.
“But you’ve only met him once!” he added almost pleadingly.
“You don’t understand, father dear,” said Billie desperately. “I’ll explain the whole thing later, when….”
“Father!” ejaculated Jno. Peters feebly. “Did you say ‘father’?”
“Of course I said ‘father’!”
“This is my daughter, Mr. Peters.”
“My daughter! I mean, your daughter! Are—are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Do you think I don’t know my own daughter?”
“But she called me ‘Mr. Peters’!”
“Well, it’s your name, isn’t it?”
“But, if she—if this young lady is your daughter, how did she know my name?”
The point seemed to strike Mr. Bennett. He turned to Billie.
“That’s true. Tell me, Wilhelmina, when did you and Mr. Peters meet?”
“Why, in—in Sir Mallaby Marlowe’s office, the morning you came there and found me when I was—talking to Sam.”
Mr. Peters uttered a subdued gargling sound. He was finding this scene oppressive to a not very robust intellect.
“He—Mr. Samuel—told me your name, Miss Milliken,” he said dully.
Billie stared at him.
“Mr. Marlowe told you my name was Miss Milliken!” she repeated.
“He told me that you were the sister of the Miss Milliken who acts as stenographer for the guv’—for Sir Mallaby, and sent me in to show you my revolver, because he said you were interested and wanted to see it.”
Billie uttered an exclamation. So did Mr. Bennett, who hated mysteries.
“What revolver? Which revolver? What’s all this about a revolver? Have you a revolver?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Bennett. It is packed now in my trunk, but usually I carry it about with me everywhere in order to take a little practice at the Rupert Street range. I bought it when Sir Mallaby told me he was sending me to America, because I thought I ought to be prepared—because of the Underworld, you know.”
A cold gleam had come into Billie’s eyes. Her face was pale and hard. If Sam Marlowe—at that moment carolling blithely in his bedroom at the Blue Boar in Windlehurst, washing his hands preparatory to descending to the coffee-room for a bit of cold lunch—could have seen her, the song would have frozen on his lips. Which, one might mention, as showing that there is always a bright side, would have been much appreciated by the travelling gentleman in the adjoining room, who had had a wild night with some other travelling gentlemen, and was then nursing a rather severe headache, separated from Sam’s penetrating baritone, only by the thickness of a wooden wall.