A Dead Reckoning. T. W. Speight

       CHAPTER II.

      Five minutes might have passed when Gerald Brooke and the Baron Von Rosenberg came sauntering along the terrace, and entered the room through one of the long windows.

      In appearance the owner of Beechley Towers was a thoroughgoing Englishman, and no one would have suspected him of having a drop of foreign blood in his veins. He was six-and-twenty years old, tall, fair, and stalwart. His hair, beard, and moustache were of a light reddish brown; he had laughing eyes of the darkest blue, and a mouth that was rarely without a smile. His bearing was that of a well-born, chivalrous, young Englishman. As he came into the room, laughing and talking to the Baron, he looked like a man who had not a care in the world.

      The Baron Von Rosenberg was so carefully preserved and so elaborately got up, that one might guess his age at anything between forty and fifty-five. He was tall and thin, with a military uprightness and precision of bearing. He had close-cropped iron-gray hair, and a heavy moustache of the same colour. He spoke excellent English with only the faintest possible accent, but with a certain slowness and an elaboration of each word, which of themselves would have been enough to indicate that he was not "to the manner born."

      "I had no idea, my dear Brooke, that you were such a crack shot," remarked the Baron. "I had made up my mind that I should have an easy victory."

      "I learned to shoot in Poland, when I was quite a youngster. It is an amusement that has served to while away many idle hours."

      "I have a tolerable range at Beaulieu; you must come over and try your skill there."

      "I shall be most pleased to do so."

      "I have also a small collection of curios, chiefly in the way of arms and armour, picked up in the course of my travels, which it may amuse you to look over."

      "Your telling me that," answered Gerald, "reminds me that I have in my possession one article which, as I believe you are a connoisseur in such matters, you may be interested in examining." As he spoke he crossed to a cabinet, and opening the glass doors, he brought out a pistol, the barrel and lock of which were chased and damascened in gold, and the stock ornamented with trophies and scrolls in silver inlay and repoussé work. "It was given me when I was in India by a certain Nawab to whom I had rendered some slight service," said Gerald as he handed the pistol to the Baron. "It doesn't seem much of a curiosity to look at; but I am told that in its way it is almost unique."

      "I can readily believe that," answered the Baron, as he examined the weapon minutely through his gold-rimmed glasses. "I have never seen anything quite like it, although I have seen many curious pistols in my time. I myself have two or three in my collection on which I set some little store. I call to mind, however, that a certain friend of mine in London, who is even more entêté in such matters than I am, owns a weapon somewhat similar to this, inlaid with arabesque work in brass and silver, which he has always looked upon as being of Spanish, or at least of Moorish workmanship.--Now, my dear Mr. Brooke, I am going to ask you the favour of lending me this treasure for a few days. I go to London tomorrow, and while there, I should like to show it to my friend, so as to enable him to compare it with the one in his possession. He would be delighted, I know, and"----

      "My dear Baron, not another word," cried Gerald. "Take the thing, and keep it as long as you like. I value it only as a memento of some pleasant days spent many thousands of miles from here. My servant shall carry it across to Beaulieu in the course of the evening."

      "A thousand thanks; but I value the weapon too highly to trust it into the hands of a servant. I will return it personally in the course of a few days." So saying, the Baron, with a nod and a smile, dropped the pistol into the pocket of his loose morning coat.

      "But madame your wife," he said presently; "may I not hope to have the pleasure of seeing her again before I take my leave?"

      Gerald crossed the room, and was on the point of ringing the bell, when Mrs. Brooke entered.

      The Baron's heels came together as he bent his head. "I was just about to take my leave, madame," he said. "I am overjoyed to have the felicity of seeing you again before doing so."

      There was something too high-flown about this for Clara's simple tastes, and her cheek flushed a little as she answered: "I hope you have enjoyed your pistol-practice, Baron."

      "Greatly. I assure you that Mr. Brooke is an adept with the weapon--very much so indeed. I must really beg of him to give me a few lessons."

      Gerald laughed.

      "As a diplomatist by profession, Baron, you are doubtless a proficient in the art of flattery," said Mrs. Brooke.

      "A mere tyro, dear madame. Sincerity is the badge of all our tribe, as every one knows."

      At this they all laughed a little.

      "But now I must positively say adieu."

      "By which road do you return to Beaulieu, Baron?" inquired Gerald.

      "The afternoon is so fine and the distance so short, that I purpose walking back through the park."

      "Then, with your permission, I will walk with you as far as the corner of the wood."

      "Need I say that I shall be charmed?"

      Mrs. Brooke gave the Baron her hand. He bent low over it. For once the ramrod in his back found that it had a hinge in it.

      "You will not be gone long?" said Clara to her husband.

      "Not more than half an hour.--We will go this way, Baron, if you please."

      "Are all diplomatists like the Baron Von Rosenberg, I wonder?" mused Mrs. Brooke. "If so, I am glad Gerald is not one. His politeness is so excessive that it makes one doubt whether there is anything genuine at the back of it. And then the cold-blooded way in which he looks you through out of his frosty eyes! Could any woman ever learn to love a man like the Baron? I am quite sure that I could not."

      She seated herself at the piano, and had been playing for a few minutes when she was startled by the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside. She turned her head and next moment started to her feet "George! You!" she exclaimed; and as she did so, the colour fled from her cheeks and her hand went up quickly to her heart.

      At Mrs. Brooke's exclamation, a tall, thin, olive-complexioned young man, with black eyes and hair and a small silky moustache, advanced into the room. He was handsome as far as features went; just now, however, his expression was anything but a pleasant one. A something that was at once furtive and cruel lurked in the corners of his eyes, and although his thin lips were curved into a smile, it was a smile that had neither mirth nor good-nature in it. A small gash in his upper lip, the result of an accident in youth, through which one of his teeth gleamed sharp and white, did not add to the attractiveness of his appearance. In one hand he carried a riding-whip, and in the other a pair of buckskin gloves.

      "Good afternoon, Clara," he said with a careless nod as he deposited his hat, gloves, and whip on the side-table.

      "You quite startled me," said Mrs. Brooke as she went forward and gave him her hand.

      "You expected any one rather than me--of course. As I was riding along the old familiar road, I saw your husband, in company with some other man, walking down the avenue. In the hope that I might perhaps find you alone, I rode on to the Beechley Arms, left my horse there, entered the park by the side-entrance