Temple an' lit matches to see we hadn't left anything behind. Walen, he had confiscated the note-books before they left. There was the first man's pistol, which we'd forgot to return him, lyin' on the stone bench. Mankeltow puts his hand on it—he never touched the trigger—an', bein' an automatic, of course the blame thing jarred off—spiteful as a rattler!
'"Look out! They'll have one of us yet," says Walen in the dark. But they didn't—the Lord hadn't quit being our shepherd—and we heard the bullet zip across the veldt—quite like old times. Ya-as !
'"Swine!" says Mankeltow.
'After that I didn't hear any more "Poor chap" talk. . . . Me? I never worried about killing my man. I was too busy figurin' how a British jury might regard the proposition. I guess Lundie felt that way too.
'Oh, but say! We had an interestin' time at dinner. Folks was expected whose auto had hung up on the road. They hadn't wired, and Peters had laid two extra places. We noticed 'em as soon as we sat down. I'd hate to say how noticeable they were. Mankeltow with his neck bandaged (he'd caught a relaxed throat golfin') sent for Peters and told him to take those empty places away—if you please. It takes something to rattle Peters. He was rattled that time. Nobody else noticed anything. And now . . .'
'Where did they come down?' I asked, as he rose.
