How Ronald Barreymaine Squared His Account

Then Barnabas raised the pistol-butt and, beating in the window,
loosed the catch, and, as Mr. Chichester sprang to his feet, opened
the casement and stepped into the room.

For a long moment neither spoke, while eyes met and questioned eyes,
those of Barnabas wide and bright, Mr. Chichester's narrowed to
shining slits. And indeed, as they fronted each other thus, each was
the opposite of the other, Barnabas leaning in the window, his pistol
hand hidden behind him, a weary, bedraggled figure mired from heel
to head; Mr. Chichester standing rigidly erect, immaculate of dress
from polished boot to snowy cravat.

"So," said he at last, breaking the ominous silence, "so it's--yes,
it is Mr.--Barty, I think, unpleasantly damp and devilish muddy, and,
consequently, rather more objectionable than usual."

"I have ridden far, and the roads were bad," said Barnabas.

"Ah! and pray why inflict yourself upon me?"

"For a very good and sufficient reason, sir."

"Ha, a reason?" said Mr. Chichester, lounging against the mantel.
"Can it be you have discerned at last that the highly dramatic
meeting between father and son at a certain banquet, not so long ago,
was entirely contrived by myself--that it was my hand drove you from
society and made you the derision of London, Mr. Barty?"

"Why, yes," sighed Barnabas; "I guessed that much, sir."

"Indeed, I admire your perspicacity, Mr. Barty. And now, I presume
you have broken into my house with some brutal idea of pummelling me
with your fists? But, sir, I am no prizefighter, like you and your
estimable father, and I warn you that--"