mind. The astute have no doubt discovered ere this that the mind of
Mr. Guy Oscard was a piece of mental mechanism more noticeable for
solidity of structure than brilliancy or rapidity of execution.
Thoughts and ideas and principles had a strange way of getting mixed
up with the machinery, and sticking there. Guy Oscard had, for
instance, concluded some years before that the Winchester rifle was,
as he termed it, "no go"; and if the Pope of Rome and the patentee
of the firearm in question had crossed Europe upon their bended
knees to persuade him to use a Winchester rifle, he would have
received them with a pleasant smile and an offer of refreshment. He
would have listened to their arguments with that patience of manner
which characterises men of large stature, and for the rest of his
days he would have continued to follow big game with an "Express"
double-barrelled rifle as heretofore. Men who decide such small
matters as these for themselves, after mature and somewhat slow
consideration, have a way of also deciding the large issues of life
without pausing to consider either expediency or the experience of
their neighbours.

During the last forty-eight hours Guy Oscard had made the decision
that life without Millicent Chyne would not be worth having, and in
the hush of the great house he was pondering over this new feature
in his existence. Like all deliberate men, he was placidly
sanguine. Something in the life of savage sport that he had led had
no doubt taught him to rely upon his own nerve and capacity more
than do most men. It is the indoor atmosphere that contains the
germ of pessimism.

His thoughts cannot have been disturbing, for presently his eyes
closed and he appeared to be slumbering. If it was sleep, it was