"You see, he showed unmistakable symptoms of going mad----"
(I had heard that madmen invariably think every one around them is mad,
and that they themselves are sane.)
"----so I felt it my duty to shoot him; it was all over in a moment."
"Poor Jack!" I cried involuntarily.
"Yes," he answered, "but I should do just the same again if the occasion
arose."
And he looked at me fixedly.
I felt horribly frightened. Did he think I was mad? And I fell to
wondering, when he put his hand in his pocket, whether he had the
revolver there. We had reached our garden gate by this time, where, to
my infinite relief, we were joined by Gerald, flushed and triumphant
after winning his match.
After an agonised aside "Don't ask about Jack," I murmured an
introduction, and we all walked up to the house together. In the hall I
managed to tell Gerald of our dreadful position, and implored him to
humour the madman as much as possible until we could form some plan for
his capture.
"We'll give him dinner just as if nothing has happened, and after that
I'll arrange something," said Gerald hopefully; "don't you worry."
[Sidenote: A Knife Trick]
Never shall I forget that dinner! We were on tenterhooks the whole time,
and it made me shudder to see how Mr. Marriott caressed the knives. I
could scarcely prevent myself screaming when he held one up, and,
feeling the blade carefully with his finger, said:
"I rather thought of doing this little trick to-night, if you would like
it; it is very convincing and doesn't take long.
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