sh of metal. It had all
happened at once. But now, in an amphitheatre of scared faces, as far
behind as the limits of the garden enclosure would allow, Mr. Brady and
his host stood facing each other alone, and the Colonel, now entirely
himself, with the high colour fading out of his cheeks, was looking with
cool and unwavering eyes straight into the barrel of Mr. Brady's
revolver.

It was a clumsy, old-fashioned little weapon. Brady's thin hand grasped
it firmly, as if some stronger hand than his own were steadying his. He
laughed an ineffective laugh, like a boastful boy's, but there was a
threat in it, too.

"What have you got to say for yourself? I'll give you a chance to say
it," he stated magnanimously, "but you shan't say a word against her.
She was always a good girl. She is a good girl. What have you done with
her? Where is she?"

"You don't make yourself altogether clear, Brady," said the Colonel
smoothly.

"Where's Maggie?"

"Maggie?" The Colonel's eyes swept the circle of his guests
deliberately, as if to assure himself that no lady of that name was
among them.

"Maggie. You know the name well enough." The sound of it seemed to give
the lady's champion new courage; it flamed in his eyes, hot, and quick
to burn itself out, but while it lasted, even a gentleman who had
learned to face drawn revolvers as indifferently as the Colonel might do
well to be afraid of him. "Maggie's missing. I'm going to find her.
That's all I want of you. I won't ask you who's worked on her and made a
fool of her. I won't ask you how far she's been going. But I want her
back before the whole town knows. I want to find her and find her quick.
She's a good girl and a decent girl. She's going to keep her good name.
She's coming home."

"Commendable," said the Colonel, not quite smoothly enough. His guest
was past listening to him.

"Maggie. That's all I want. You're getting off easy. Luck's with you.
I've stood a lot from you, the same as the town has. It will stand a lot
more, and I will. Get Maggie back. Get her back and give her to me and
leave her alone, and I'll eat out of your hand and starve when you don't
feed me, the same as the rest"--he came two wavering steps nearer, and
dropped his voice to a dry quaver meant to be confidential, a grotesque
and sinister parody of a confidence--"the rest, that don't know what I
know."

"What do you mean?"

"I won't tell. Don't be afraid. A gentleman don't tell, and there's
no