The young man could not altogether reconcile this style of treatment with his preconceived conception of Miss Natalie Coolidge.  He had been too deeply impressed by her to easily relinquish his previously formed opinion of her character.  This latest action did not at all coincide with her former open friendliness.  He had not gone to her as a servant, nor had she in any way treated him as such.  What could account for so remarkable a change?  Even if she had felt his present usefulness was ended; that she had made a mistake in ever admitting him to her confidence, the dismissal could have been much more pleasantly achieved.  She could still have exhibited friendliness, and an interest in his departure.  Her words and manner had been extremely abrupt, and her explanation far from satisfactory.

Perhaps it was the influence of Percival Coolidge which accounted for the sudden change in the girl.  This explanation seemed probable.  The man had in some way regained her confidence, and then, through trickery, had succeeded in poisoning her mind.  There was no doubt he would do this, if possible, and the probability was that he had finally discovered a way.  From the very first, West had felt the antagonism of the other; there had never been any love lost between them.  Coolidge disliked him instinctively, and made no effort to conceal his feelings; he resented the intimacy between him and Natalie, naturally enough, and would use every means possible to get the younger man completely out of the house.  No doubt he looked upon him as dangerous.  But why?  There could only be one answer to this query.  His own dishonesty; his secret knowledge of some trickery relative to the funds of the estate.  He had convinced the girl of his honesty, but, more than ever, West believed the fellow a rascal.  His very helplessness to intervene rendered him the more convinced.

These thoughts flitted through his mind, yet not consecutively, as the car left the grounds, and turned on to the main road, leading citywards.  They were still skirting the Coolidge estate, although the house behind was concealed by shrubbery.  The road descending into a ravine spanned by a concrete bridge, and a rather dense growth of trees shut out the surrounding landscape.  Nothing moving was in sight.  Suddenly, just as they cleared the bridge, and began to mount the opposite grade, there came a sharp report, sounding so close at hand the chauffeur clamped on his brake, and glanced anxiously over the side of the car.

“Blow-out, wasn’t it, sir?”

“No,” said West shortly, staring himself out into the thicket of trees at their left.  “It was a shot fired over there; a revolver I should say.  Wait a second, Sanders, until I see what has happened.”