The door opened and Dr. Wells entered. They rushed at him, all speaking
at once.
“How is she?” Howard asked.
“Is she alive?” Corinne quavered.
“Is she _dead_?” her mother demanded.
“There, there, good people; one at a time. Yes. One at a time.”
“Don’t hum and haw!” Mrs. Witherby shrieked at him.
“Is the wound fatal?” Howard asked, more definitely this time.
“Fatal? Oh dear me, no. Oh no, certainly not. Only a flesh-wound. A
mere trifle.”
“A trifle?” Mrs. Witherby could not believe her ears.
“How did it happen?” Howard was trying to hasten the explanation by
keeping rigidly to the point.
“Well--er--as nearly as I can make out--er--the constable--yes, it was
the constable--mistook Mr.--er--_the man_ for a tramp, and immediately
fired.”
“And nearly killed Mrs. Mearely?” Corinne’s impatience broke bounds.
“Eh? What?” The doctor had removed his horn-rimmed glasses and was
polishing them.
Howard, with a supreme effort, mastered his irritation.
“The bullet struck my cousin?--how?”
“Oh, dear me, no. Oh dear, no.” He breathed on the lenses and rubbed
them back and forth through a silk handkerchief. “Ah, I see. You also
are under the impression that Mrs. Mearely is the invalid.”
“Is she all right?” Corinne shook his arm.
“Oh quite, quite. Never better in her life, the sweet lady. Quite so.
But--er--Mr.--er--Mills. Yes; Mills. Mr. Mills....”
“_Who_ is Mr. Mills?” Mrs. Witherby almost screamed the question, in
her unendurable exasperation.
“Oh, Mr. Mills is--er--well, I fear I can’t tell you _who_ he is,
because I don’t know. But his name is Mills--with two l’s. Perhaps you
know him? He was travelling along the road, and a constable, mistaking
him for a tramp, shot at him--er--just outside Mrs. Mearely’s house.
She, with great courage, ran out to see what had happened--er--had the
wounded gentleman brought in here and telephoned at once for me.”
Mrs. Witherby, so far from being relieved, was indignant.
“But Mrs. Wells said,” she began accusingly....
“Yes, yes, I know. Dyspepsia. So we thought--until I arrived. But I
must hasten. I left Mrs. Wells feeling quite an invalid. Heartburn.
Fortunately, we have a perfect cure for it. Our cousin, Dr. Mayhew
Pipp’s, remedy. You know, the poor fellow discovered an infallible cure
a few years before he died of the disease. Very sad. No doubt he would
have been knighted, had he lived. We feel very secure as long as we
have cousin Mayhew Pipp’s May-Piplets.”
He swallowed a small pink pellet from a phial, snapped his bag to, and
hurried out, saying “good-night” over his shoulder.
The three, looking blankly at one another, heard the trap drive away.
Mrs. Witherby dropped into the big chair.
“Well! of _all_ things!” she said. “What time is it?”
“I’m so relieved and happy I could shout!” Corinne exclaimed, laughing
and crying a little at the same time.
“Yes, indeed,” Howard agreed; “I cannot be thankful enough for poor
Rosamond’s safety.”
Mrs. Witherby gave him an acid look, and sniffed.
“Yes! I dare say your gratitude is deep, Mr. Howard. As for me, I don’t
appreciate being dragged out of bed at three in the morning, and
frightened out of my senses, for any Mr. Mills I never saw in all my
life.”
“I’m sure the realization of your purely disinterested intention
must compensate for the loss of your beauty-sleep, Mrs. Witherby.”
His manner was courteous, even courtly; yet, in some subtle way, he
succeeded in implying that she was a meddler. She bristled.
“As I am not a relative of Mrs. Mearely’s, I think _my_
disinterestedness may be taken for granted, Mr. Howard. The sad
occasion would not have benefited me.”
Corinne, anxious to ward off strife, said hastily:
“Hadn’t we better go, mamma? Mrs. Mearely won’t need you to take charge
of things now.”
This fact, alas, was not soothing to a lady with Mrs. Witherby’s
passion for taking charge of things. She snapped:
“I know that without _your_ telling me. Where on earth did you learn to
be such a busybody? Of course, now I’m here, I shall wait to see Mrs.
Mearely.”
There was a short, uncomfortable silence, while she twisted about and
tossed her head, smiled disagreeably and very knowingly, and tapped her
fingers on the arm of the chair. Her motions presently focussed the
gaze of the other two upon her with a sort of fascination. She turned,
sharply, on Howard:
“Mr. Howard, do you believe that story about the constable?”
“Believe it?” in surprise. “Certainly--er--why not?”
“Does it explain the empty pistol I found on the table?”
He considered briefly.
“No--o. But very possibly it needs no explanation. Rosamond may have
drawn the charges herself.”
“Oh, mamma, please don’t invent any more horrors to-night. I--I--just
can’t _stand_ it.” Corinne’s voice indicated that she had borne too
much. She was smothering an hysterical desire to cry.
“Corinne!” angrily.
“First, Mrs. Mearely had a terrible fright; then she had ptomaine
poisoning; next she had been nearly murdered; and the last thing was
she had shot herself!”
“Well! everything _pointed_....” her mother commenced, indignantly.
Corinne’s last vestige of control flew from her. She waved her hands
about, in a very fair imitation of her mother’s favourite emotional
gesticulations, and cried:
“No, it didn’t! it didn’t! But when you don’t _know_ anything, you
always have to make up things. And half the time you’re all wrong. I
wish you’d come home now. Next, you’ll be saying _she_ shot _him_!”
“Ah ha!” Mrs. Witherby was triumphant. “It _does_ look like it, doesn’t
it? And I intend to remain here until I find out _why_ she shot
him--this Mr. Mills.”
Corinne gave a little moan and burst into tears. Howard rose abruptly
and went to the verandah. He almost collided with Constable Marks, who
pushed him aside and marched indoors.
“Here! What are you doing?” Howard asked the intruder, severely, and
gripped him by the coat.
“’Ands orf!” Mr. Marks exhibited his badge “Horfcer of the law.”
“What is your business here?”
“Hi came about the shoofer as was shot.”
“How do _you_ know the man was shot?” Mrs. Witherby wanted to know.
Constable Marks looked at her, as a brilliant intellect may regard a
sample of crass stupidity.
“Who’d know better, Hi’d like to know, than me wot shot ’im? But Hi
didn’t get ’is nyme.”
“His name is Mills,” Howard supplied.
Mr. Marks brought out his tablet, wetted his purple pencil, and wrote
the name as he conceived it.
“Mills--with two hells?”
“Two hells--I mean, l’s! l’s!” Mrs. Witherby was out of patience. “How
else on earth would you spell it?”
Howard, with an authoritative gesture, restrained her.
“Two l’s. I can’t tell you anything more about him. He is a complete
stranger to Mrs. Mearely and to all of us. I must say, officer, that
you have made a lot of trouble for Mrs. Mearely and all of us, by your
reckless shooting--firing at a gentleman, who was riding peaceably
along the road!”
Mr. Marks looked up from his note book and stared at Howard in
stupefaction.
“Wot d’yer say? Gentleman ridin’ peaceable halong the road. Hi likes to
know hif you calls _that_ peaceable--a-jumpin’ on my ’ead.”
“_Jumping_ on? What do you mean?”
“Hi mean _jumpin’ hon my ’ead--that’s wot Hi mean_. Dived hoff the
porch railin’ right on to my ’ead! at two-forty-five in the mornin’,
too. No wonder Hi takes ’im for a ‘ousebreaker.”
Mrs. Witherby’s eyes glittered. She closed in and plucked him by the
sleeve.
“Jumped off the railing, you say? What railing?”
He withdrew the raiment of the law from her desecrating touch, and
replied, witheringly.
“_That_ railin’. Hi don’t see no _hother_--hunless you think Hi means
the pearl an’ goldin’ railin’s of ’eaven!--_w’ich Hi don’t!_ The lady
comes runnin’ hout, an’ we brings ’im in ’ere. An’ ’e turns hout to be
the shoofer wot’s jest got ’ome, an’ was ’avin’ ’is bite.”
He jerked his thumb toward the supper-tray.
“Chauffeur,” Howard repeated. “What made you think he was the
chauffeur?”
“Say! Hi’m gettin’ provoked with _you_! ’Ow do Hi know ’e’s the
shoofer? Cos ’e _says_ so! An’ _she_ says so! An’ Hi makes my excuses
an’ takes ’er nyme but forgets to take _’is_ nyme. An’ that’s w’y the
chief sends me back ’ere--_if you wants to know_. Hit’s always reg’lar
to get the nyme of a shot party. Tain’t hoften Hi shoots a man. W’en
Hi do, they likes to ’ave ’is hidentity.” He touched his hat. “Halfred
Marks is _my_ hidentity.”
“But Mrs. Mearely _hasn’t_ any chauffeur. What else...?”
Howard stopped her firmly.
“Mrs. Witherby, this is not the time for--that is to say, the constable
has made a stupid mistake. Er--constable, you have made an error. The
man’s name is Mills, and he is an entire stranger to all of us. You
will please report that to your chief.”
Mr. Marks set his jaw obstinately.
“Jest as you say. But w’en _hentire strangers_ takes to divin’ hoff
porch railin’s--_at that time o’ night_!--hall Hi feel Hi can say his:
hit may be the carefree, heasy manners of the rich, but it _hain’t
pretty be’aviour_!”
Howard guided him out, with slight but positive shoves.
“That will do, officer. I’ve given you the facts. Make your report in
accordance with them.”
“Hall right, sir,” offendedly. On the porch he paused to find out the
hour. Ere replacing the watch in his pocket he waved it on its cherry
loop before Howard’s eyes.
“Hi see you’re hadmirin’ o’ this,” he began.
“Not at all,” curtly. Howard turned his back. Constable Marks gave
every sign of a sensitive man under acute insult.
“Ho, _very well_!” he said at last, with great dignity, not unmixed
with contempt. “There’s some as will be ’aughty to their gryve.” With
this crushing rebuke he withdrew.
[Illustration]