"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.