The Fourth Attack
“I see the coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of wilful murder
against some person or persons unknown,” Wendover remarked. “I suppose
it’s the only verdict that would fit the case. They seemed to think
you’d been rather slack in not having it all cut and dried for them,
Clinton. Quite obviously they wanted the murderer’s head on a charger,
and they were disappointed when you couldn’t produce the article.”
“I think they were disappointed that we hadn’t given them more
evidence than we did,” Sir Clinton suggested with a certain
indifference in his tone. “They seemed to imagine that the whole
affair had been got up for their amusement—so that half of them could
take on the post of Sherlock-on-the-Pounce. They can pounce away to
their heart’s content if they wish. I’m not stopping them. But it
isn’t my business to supply them with spring-boards, though they
seemed to think so. All I wanted was to get the formalities through
without too much jaw. And the coroner, decent man, saw to that for
me.”
“What about your own swoops and pounces, before you wax ironical about
these unfortunate yokels? It doesn’t seem to me that you’ve got very
much farther than they’ve done, after all. What about it, Clinton?”
Sir Clinton laughed teasingly.
“The Hackleton case is dragging along still,” he said, with the
obvious intention of changing the subject. “Shandon’s junior isn’t
making much out of it, so far as I can see. Old man Hackleton has
every reason to be content with the removal of Neville Shandon. He’s
having it all his own way in the case now—far too clever for the poor
barrister. He’ll get off scot-free, or I’m much mistaken.”
Wendover refused to be led away on this fresh trail.
“Seriously,” he said, “you don’t seem to be doing much on this
Whistlefield case. You’ve just been loafing about these last few
days.”
Sir Clinton did not defend himself. In fact, he went out of his way to
underline Wendover’s complaint.
“And to-night I’m actually dragging you off to play bridge at
Whistlefield, eh? Well, the invitation didn’t originate with me. It
came from Miss Hawkhurst. I admit that I angled for it in a somewhat
unprincipled way—gave her to understand that the company of a sour old
bachelor was getting on my nerves here, that I’d welcome a little
bright feminine society, and that the society of herself and Miss
Forrest had just the very kind of brightness that the case needed.”
“She must have felt flattered!” Wendover commented ironically.
“Oh, of course it was put in my most delicate vein.”
Then Sir Clinton became suddenly serious.
“I’m not very happy in mind about things, Squire; and I want to get a
footing in that house apart from purely professional visits. Hence the
angling. Otherwise, the thing would be in the worst of taste, I quite
admit.”
Wendover pricked up his ears.
“Are you expecting more trouble even now? Nothing’s happened. . . .”
“Since the last time? No, it’s rather a curious point which you may
have noticed, Squire. Nothing ever does happen between the last time
and the next time. That I should say was an almost invariable rule in
life.”
“You evidently lost the chance of a good job when the Sibyls went out
of business,” said Wendover in a disappointed tone. “You could have
written up their books for them in the very best style. You’re a past
master in the art of seeming to say something important and really
saying nothing whatever.”
“It often comes in useful,” said Sir Clinton. “But why say anything at
all? It seems just about the time when we ought to be starting for
Whistlefield. Suppose we take the hint.”
He refused to discuss the Whistlefield case during the drive across,
or even to give Wendover an inkling of why he wished to get a footing
in the house at all. The Squire was not quite satisfied. To him, it
appeared rather like a breach of hospitality for them to go there with
anything in their minds beyond the game for which they had been
invited. He disliked the idea of Sir Clinton Driffield introducing his
_alter ego_ the Chief Constable into a neighbour’s house by this
indirect method.
When they arrived they found only four of the Whistlefield party
awaiting them. Arthur Hawkhurst was busy with the loud-speaker, from
which he was evoking weird oscillation-notes in the course of his
endeavours to pick up different stations. Ernest Shandon was sitting
drowsily in a corner of the room; and Wendover noticed with distaste
that he had a spirit decanter and syphon on a table beside him. As the
Chief Constable and Wendover were announced, Sylvia came forward.
“So glad you’ve come, Sir Clinton. We’re looking forward to some
decent bridge. . . .”
A weird howl from the loud-speaker drowned the remainder of her words.
Ernest lifted himself from his chair with an effort and approached
them.
“Are you much of a bridge-player?” he inquired apathetically. “I never
cared enough for the game to do much good. It’s such a lot of trouble,
you know. All this business of struggling for the declaration, and all
that. And if one gets keen on it one’s apt to get very keen; and
perhaps then one spends a lot of time over it. And one might spend
that time in other ways, perhaps better, don’t you think? But perhaps
you like it? Some people do.”
“Uncle was never a rap of good at it,” Sylvia explained with a faint
suspicion of a smile. “So naturally he doesn’t like it. Same as the
non-dancing man who can’t dance, you know.”
“Now Stenness is a good player,” Ernest went on. “And I can’t think
why he finds it amusing. He’s got all the cards docketed in his head,
you know, just like a lot of papers in pigeon-holes. That seems to me
too much like work—making a toil of pleasure and all that sort of
thing. But to-night he won’t be playing. He’s busy in the study with
some papers I asked him to look over. And Torrance is practising shots
in the billiard room, so he won’t be playing, either. Arthur! Are you
going to play?”
Arthur looked up crossly from his task.
“No!” he snapped. “Can’t you see this affair’s gone out of gear and
I’m trying to put it right?”
Another shriek from the instrument emphasised his words.
Sylvia put her hands over her ears.
“Will you be long over it, Arthur?” she demanded. “These howls are
terrible.”
“Can’t you see I’m doing the best I can?” her brother retorted
snappishly. “There’s nothing so aggravating as to have someone
standing over one the whole time asking: ‘Will it be all right soon?’
and ‘When do you think you’ll have it in order?’ or ‘D’you know what’s
wrong with it?’ I’m doing the best I can with the thing.”
Sylvia was evidently used to her brother’s outbreaks of temper. With a
slight gesture she reassured Arthur that he would not be interrupted
again; and then she turned to getting the bridge-table arranged. She
and Wendover were to play Sir Clinton and Vera Forrest.
“I don’t care much for this room at this time of the evening,” she
said, as she took the cards from their box. “The window’s almost level
with the ground, and that bank of rhododendrons is so close that it
blocks the best part of the view.”
“Not much view left at this time of night, Miss Hawkhurst,” Wendover
said, glancing out. “The dusk’s so deep that one can hardly see
anything in it now.”
Ernest who had been shuffling about the room in an aimless fashion for
a few moments suddenly uttered a complaint.
“It’s very stuffy in here. Don’t you find it so, Sir Clinton? And you,
Miss Forrest? It’s a rather hot night. Very close. I do like fresh
air; they sometimes laugh at me and call me a fresh air fiend, you
know; but I do like a breath of fresh air. Anybody object to the
window being opened a bit from the bottom? Let some cooler air in
here, then.”
Sylvia looked up from her game.
“We’re right in front of the window, uncle. Perhaps some of us might
object to possible draughts.”
But Ernest refused to allow his desires to be side-tracked in this
way.
“You don’t object, Miss Forrest? No? And you people don’t, either? You
see, Sylvia, nobody minds. I’ll just open it a bit.”
He went forward and threw open the lower sash to its highest range.
“There! That’s much better!” he ejaculated, as he retired to his
corner again. “It won’t get so stuffy now. That’ll be a great
improvement, you’ll see. I never could stand stuffy rooms. I
remember . . .”
Whatever he remembered was drowned by the loud-speaker. Arthur had at
last completed his repairs and the jazz music of the machine filled
the room.
“There! That’s all right now,” the mechanic announced at the pitch of
his voice in an endeavour to make himself heard. “I’ll just leave it
on, if you don’t mind. I want to see if it’s properly fixed up.”
He left the room unobserved by the bridge-players, who were intent on
their game. Ernest gave a sour look at the loudspeaker; and after
bearing it with obvious distaste for some minutes, he also rose.
“I’m going into the winter-garden,” he explained, as he passed the
bridge-table. “I can’t stand the racket that machine makes. It makes
my head ache; it gives me a regular piercing pain in the ear to sit
near it. I’ll just rest quietly in the winter-garden and come back
again when Arthur’s finished with his tinkering at the affair.”
He stooped over Sir Clinton’s shoulder and added in an undertone:
“I’ve been very careful lately. I’ve taken your advice and kept inside
the house as much as possible—so as to run no unnecessary risks, you
know.”
He nodded with the air of one who confirms a weighty decision and
lumbered off out of the room, leaving Sir Clinton staring after him.
“My advice!” the Chief Constable reflected with a certain dry
amusement. “Well, I like his cheek in foisting that on to my
shoulders!”
Wendover was glad that the bridge precluded much conversation. He felt
that Sir Clinton had drawn him into a false position that evening; and
he had to exert himself so as not to betray his feelings in the
matter. Once they sat down, however, the play turned out very even;
and he had not much mental energy left for anything beyond his game,
which tended to reconcile him to his visit. Both the girls played
better than the average; and he was beginning to forget his
dissatisfaction as time went on.
“That’s game and rubber,” said Sir Clinton, at length, as he looked up
from the marker lying beside him.
Sylvia glanced at her wrist-watch.
“Shall we play another?” she asked. “There’s plenty of time, unless
you wish to get away early.”
As she spoke she stretched out her arm to lift the marker; but in the
middle of the gesture she gave a sharp cry of pain and started up from
her chair. Then, as she mechanically brought her hand down again on to
the table, Wendover saw a spurt of blood from her right wrist, and, at
its source, the brown feathering of one of the poisoned darts embedded
in her white skin.
For an instant the group around the bridge-table was stricken into
immobility, while the blood jetted from Sylvia’s wrist and stained the
cards across which her hand had fallen. The swift incursion of tragedy
upon the scene had taken them unawares. A moment or two earlier they
had been sitting in safety, intent upon their game. Then, out of the
night the tiny missile had sped to its mark; and the King of Terrors
had come among them. There had not even been the warning of the
air-gun’s report; for it must have been drowned by the noise of the
loudspeaker which still continued to pour out its incongruous flood of
dance music.
Wendover frozen in his chair, took in the scene almost without knowing
that he was observing it; the pain-shot face of Sylvia, the horror in
Vera Forrest’s eyes, the trickle of blood across the littered cards,
and the cool visage of Sir Clinton as he leaned over the table towards
the wounded girl. Then, as he watched, Sylvia’s expression changed.
She had seen the poisoned dart in her wrist and now she understood
what it meant. Her lips opened as though saying something, then her
face grew suddenly white, and she slipped back in her chair.
Sir Clinton rose swiftly and lifted the unconscious girl across the
room to one of the couches. Wendover noticed that, even in the haste,
the Chief Constable took care to use his own body as a shield, keeping
it between Sylvia and the window until he had reached a point which
seemed out of range of the assassin.
“After the brute, Wendover!” Sir Clinton ordered, raising his voice
above the clamour of the loud-speaker. “You may be able to spot him
before he gets clear away. And shut that window behind you.”
Galvanised into action by the curt directions, Wendover suddenly
ceased to be a mere spectator. Without a word he swung himself through
the open window and out into the darkness. Somewhere in the gloom, the
unknown murderer must be lurking, waiting perhaps to make sure of his
victim with a second shot. Wendover was filled with an anger wholly
alien to his usual temperament, and he peered eagerly into the
obscurity around him in the hope of glimpsing a shadow moving among
the shades.
The murder of the two Shandons and the attack upon Ernest had left him
emotionally untouched to any real extent. The two Shandons had been
hard men, from all he knew of them; and the fate which had overtaken
them did not seem altogether out of keeping with people of their type.
The attempt on Ernest had been unsuccessful and had made little
impression on Wendover’s feelings. But this last outrage was in a
different category. Even yet he could hardly realise that a deadly
effort had been made to injure Sylvia. Sylvia! It was hardly possible
for him to feel sure that anyone would attempt to bring down a girl in
that terrible fashion. A man, somehow, was different; but he revolted
against the idea of cutting short a life like Sylvia’s. The
aimlessness of it seemed appalling to his mind; and his anger against
the hidden assassin rose to a white heat.
He moved forward in the direction from which he supposed the shot had
come; but in a few steps he ran right into the belt of rhododendrons
which stretched parallel with the house on this front. As he did so,
the loud-speaker was suddenly shut off and he halted to listen for
sounds of movement. Nothing seemed to be stirring. He circled about
the rhododendrons, but found no one there.
He retraced his steps towards the window. A single dim light shone at
the other end of the winter-garden, but except for it the house-front
was dark. The bridge-table showed every detail under the lamps of the
room beyond the window—an ideal target for the eye of anyone posted in
the darkness.
Suddenly Wendover’s eyes were dazzled by a blaze of light as the whole
of the winter-garden lamps were switched on.
“I say,” demanded a cautious voice, “what does all this mean? What’s
all this about, I say? Who are you, out there?”
Wendover’s eyes, after an instant or two, grew accustomed to the
glare. Looking towards the speaker, he saw Ernest Shandon’s figure at
the nearest door of the winter-garden. Ernest evidently meant to run
no risks; for he was holding the door almost closed and had taken
shelter behind it while he called out his demand for explanations.
Wendover’s lips curled contemptuously as he noted the shrinking figure
under the lights.
“I’m Wendover,” he announced.
Ernest opened the door another inch, though with manifest reluctance.
“What’s it all about?” he reiterated, with almost pathetic anxiety.
“Is there any danger? What are you running around like this for?
Where’s Driffield? What’s happened? Can’t you answer, man?”
Wendover was still more disgusted by the obvious poltroonery of the
man who was, nominally at least, his host.
“Miss Hawkhurst has been shot with one of those poisoned darts. Come
along and see if there’s anything we can do.”
Ernest was quite evidently reduced to the last stage of moral
prostration by the news. He had not even sufficient nerve left to
cover up his cowardice.
“Eh? What’s that? Come out there and be shot at myself? I won’t!”
“Well, stay there, then!” Wendover growled, continuing his way back to
the window through which he had come.
“I tell you what I’ll do,” he heard Ernest’s voice again. “I’ll go
into the house by the other door of the winter-garden and come round
to where you are. I’ll be under cover the whole way if I do that.”
The sound of the winter-garden door closing and the turning of the key
in the lock came to Wendover’s ears as he reopened the window and
climbed through, shutting it behind him.
Sylvia was still lying on the couch, evidently unconscious. Sir
Clinton was beside her and, much to Wendover’s surprise, some lint and
bandages had been laid out on the bridge-table which had been pulled
across the room.
“Miss Forrest,” the Chief Constable said curtly, “will you bring some
warm water? Get it yourself. These maids are no use in an emergency.
And tell them to get Miss Hawkhurst’s room ready for her—immediately.
A hot-water bottle as quick as they can—and some brandy.”
Vera was so quick that she had to pause at the door for his last
directions.
“You Wendover,” went on Sir Clinton, “get Ardsley on the ’phone at
once. Tell him I want him here at Whistlefield.”
Wendover halted for a moment.
“Hadn’t I better tell him what he’s wanted for? He may be able to
bring something with him.”
“It’s all arranged. Damnation man! _Will_ you hurry up!”
Wendover, electrified by the vehemence of the tone, hurried off
without a word. When he returned he found that Vera Forrest had
carried out her instructions and had come back to see if anything more
could be done. Ernest had also found his way into the room and stood
staring vacantly at the form of his niece lying so limply on the
couch. He was evidently about to open his mouth when Sir Clinton
looked up.
“Everything all right? Thanks, Miss Forrest. You got Ardsley,
Wendover? Good so far, then.”
He was busy bathing the wound with warm water as he spoke.
“There’s just a chance we may be able to do something,” he explained,
going on with his task. “By the merest luck, the dart hit the chain of
her watch-bracelet. It got down between the links and made a nasty
wound all the same; but it didn’t quite embed itself in the flesh. So
there’s just the chance that the dose of poison injected may not reach
the fatal amount. I can’t say. Ardsley will know better when he
arrives.”
He bathed the wound again, then turned to Wendover.
“You saw no one?”
Wendover shook his head.
“It’s practically pitch dark to-night. I could see nothing.”
Sir Clinton thought for a moment.
“You’ll find a flash-lamp in my overcoat pocket. Get it, Wendover, and
hunt round that bank of rhododendrons to see if you can find the
air-gun. The brute may have dropped it in the hurry, this time. Don’t
mind if you make a mess—the gun’s more important than any tracks you
may obscure in your search.”
As Wendover moved towards the door, Ernest seemed to come to life.
“I suppose I ought to help,” he said, “but it seems to me taking a
needless risk, sending anyone out into the dark like that. For all we
know the fellow may be out there yet, with his gun. I don’t think
anyone should go. I’m not going,” he concluded simply.
Sir Clinton glanced up for a moment and scanned Ernest with eyes that
made no effort to conceal their contempt.
“I didn’t ask you to volunteer. Go on, Wendover. I’ll come and give
you a hand as soon as Ardsley arrives.”
As Wendover turned to leave the room Stenness’s figure appeared at the
door. It was evident that the secretary had been put on the alert by
the hurrying to and fro in the house, and had come to see what was
amiss; but apparently he had had no inkling of the real state of
affairs. Wendover saw him glance from one to another in the room until
at last his eyes lighted upon the limp figure of Sylvia stretched on
the couch. Then a flash of expression crossed his features, something
which betrayed an intense emotion; but Wendover, at the moment, was
unable to interpret it. He stored it up in his memory for future
consideration, and then left the room.
“And now,” said Sir Clinton, “I think we’d better take Miss Hawkhurst
up to her room. We can manage it well enough; and she’d better be
there rather than here when she comes to herself again.”
Under his directions this was carried out. On reaching Sylvia’s room,
Sir Clinton looked round and then, going over to the window, he
endeavoured to scan the surroundings; but it was obviously too dark to
see much.
“I think we’ll shift this bed,” he suggested, when he came back. “It
had better be brought over into this corner. Then there will be no
possibility of any shot reaching it from the window. One never
knows . . .”
He paused for a moment.
“Now I think Miss Forrest and I had better wait here till Miss
Hawkhurst comes out of her faint; or at any rate till Dr. Ardsley
turns up. But we mustn’t have a crowd here just now.”
His manner, rather than his words, cleared the room of his late
assistants; and he and Vera Forrest were left alone. Sir Clinton,
after feeling Sylvia’s pulse, succeeded in giving her a few drops of
brandy. Soon she stirred faintly. Sir Clinton left the bedside and
returned to the window. Down below, at a short distance, he could see
Wendover busy with the flash-lamp. Quite obviously he had not yet
found anything.
As Sir Clinton turned away from the window Vera Forrest beckoned him
aside.
“What do you think, Sir Clinton? Is there any chance of her getting
over it?”
Sir Clinton’s grave face showed the anxiety which was at work in his
mind.
“I really can’t say anything, Miss Forrest, for I don’t know anything.
The wound isn’t as deep as in the other cases. That’s always
something. She hasn’t collapsed immediately, as her uncles did. That’s
something also. But we’ll need to wait for Dr. Ardsley; and even when
he comes, I doubt if we shall learn much. He’ll at least be able to
give her any special treatment that there is. We can only hope for the
best.”
It was clear from his tone that he did not take a light view of the
case. He had hardly ceased speaking when they heard the sound of
someone racing up the stair. The door was opened brusquely; and Sir
Clinton had just time to interpose himself when Arthur Hawkhurst came
into the room. The boy was evidently in high excitement. He had
learned of the affair downstairs and had rushed up on the spur of the
moment.
“’Sh!” said Sir Clinton, angrily. “Don’t break in here like a wild
bull!”
He led the boy gently outside into the hall.
“Your sister has been shot at like your uncles,” he explained. “So
far, the thing hasn’t killed her; but you needn’t take any optimistic
view. I’ve sent for Dr. Ardsley. He knows about that poison; and
perhaps he may be able to do something.” Arthur seemed unable to
control his excitement.
“But who’d do a thing like that?” he demanded.
“Don’t make a row,” Sir Clinton ordered, bluntly. “We can’t stand here
holding a committee meeting. There’s plenty of time for discussion
later on. She’s just coming out of a faint—at least it looks like
that. Shock of seeing what had hurt her, no doubt, was what sent her
off. Nothing to be done now until Ardsley comes. . . . Ah, here he is.
Now, Hawkhurst, we’ll go; and leave the expert to the business.”
Ardsley was ascending the stair, carrying a bag with him. He nodded a
curt greeting to the two at the head of the stair, gave another
interrogative nod as if inquiring which room he should enter, and then
disappeared, closing the door behind him. Arthur seemed amazed that
Sir Clinton had said nothing as the doctor passed.
“Aren’t you going to tell him about it?” he demanded anxiously.
“He knows all about it,” Sir Clinton assured him, but he added no
explanations. “One moment, before we go.”
He waited for a minute or two, then the door of Sylvia’s room reopened
and Ardsley came out. His ordinarily impassive face had an expression
of unusual gravity; and in answer to Sir Clinton’s interrogation he
shook his head doubtfully.
“One can’t tell,” was all he would vouchsafe. “Get these nurses at
once.”
And with this he turned on his heel and re-entered the room.
Sir Clinton put his hands into his pockets and stood for a moment or
two as though lost in thought. Then suddenly coming to life again, he
made his way to the telephone box, where he shook himself free from
Arthur on the plea of an urgent call.
When he had given his message through the telephone, the Chief
Constable returned to the room in which the attack had been made.
Wendover was apparently still busy with his search among the
rhododendrons; Vera Forrest was with Sylvia; but the rest of the
Whistlefield group were there, waiting to hear the latest news of the
victim.
Ernest Shandon’s nerves had evidently suffered severely from this
fresh shock. He was sitting in his original seat at the back of the
room, his head sunk forward and his eyes staring apathetically at the
carpet before him; while in his hand he held a glass of neat whisky
which he had just poured out from the decanter beside him. Sir Clinton
noticed that the curtains had been drawn in front of the window
through which the attack had been made; and he was not far out in
believing that this precaution was due to Ernest. It was, in fact, the
first thing he had done, once he had found leisure for it.
Howard Torrance and Stenness were standing together near the
fire-place. Howard, manifestly, was still in ignorance of some details
of the tragedy; and he was endeavouring to extract them from Stenness
by a series of eager questions. But the secretary, for once, seemed to
have lost his efficiency. He was obviously replying almost at random;
and his whole bearing was that of a man disturbed by a trivial
interruption while in the midst of some intense preoccupation with
another subject. His appearance suggested that of a man suddenly
oppressed by an unexpected and intolerable calamity. Sir Clinton’s
eyes narrowed as he swept his glance over the secretary’s face.
“He seems to be the most anxious of the lot,” he commented to himself.
Arthur Hawkhurst had been standing at the window with his back to the
room, but as Sir Clinton came in he swung round. His face seemed
disfigured by a tumult of emotions: anger, distrust, and anxiety were
clearly written on it.
“Well,” he demanded sharply, “can you tell us any more?”
“You heard what Ardsley said yourself,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “I
haven’t seen him since then.”
Arthur glared at him with unconcealed fury.
“It’s easy enough to see that it isn’t your sister that’s lying at
death’s door! You mightn’t be so cool about it then.”
He turned back to the window again, and stared out into the night.
“What _has_ happened?” Howard Torrance demanded. “You’re the only one
here who saw it all, Sir Clinton.”
“Someone took advantage of the music from the loudspeaker to steal up
close to the window, there, which Mr. Shandon insisted on opening. An
air-gun dart was fired into the room and struck Miss Hawkhurst.
Luckily, it happened to hit her wrist just where there was some
protection—the chain of her watch-bracelet; and that prevented it from
going as deep as it might. But if any poison has got into the wound,
it may be a serious matter—most serious. That’s all I know, except
that I got Dr. Ardsley over immediately, and he has her in his
charge.”
“Is there any hope that it won’t be fatal this time?” Howard Torrance
asked, anxiously.
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“I know as little as you do. I got the dart out almost immediately, so
perhaps the poison hadn’t time to get in its work. That seems to offer
some chance of escape. But you’ll need to wait for the expert’s views.
I really know nothing.”
“And you don’t seem to be doing anything,” snarled Arthur from the
window.
Before Sir Clinton needed to reply, the door opened and Wendover
hurried into the room. He was dishevelled, his tie was loose, and his
dinner-jacket showed in some places smears of green and brown which he
had evidently picked up during his prolonged search. But in his hand
he carried the thing Sir Clinton wanted—the air-gun.
“Good man!” the Chief Constable commented, as his eyes rested on the
weapon.
At the exclamation Arthur turned back towards the room. His face
changed as he caught sight of the thing that Wendover carried.
“Where did you get that, eh? That’s my best air-gun!”
“That’s the thing that may have killed your sister, then,” said
Wendover, looking mistrustfully at Arthur’s disturbed face. “I found
it in that clump of rhododendrons out there. It had been jammed right
into the middle of the bushes; that’s why it took so long to find.”
He looked Arthur up and down for a moment; then, disregarding the
owner’s outstretched hand, he passed the air-gun to Sir Clinton, who
took it from him without a word. Arthur stepped forward angrily as
though to recover his property; but at that moment a fresh
interruption occurred. Again the door opened, but this time the grim
figure of Ardsley appeared on the threshold. He waited for a moment
until he saw that he had secured the attention of them all, then he
turned towards Sir Clinton and gave him his verdict.
“This is a bad business! Of course, she’s still alive; and there’s a
chance yet. It’s a pity you didn’t think of a tourniquet at the
moment—prevent any risk of the stuff spreading, since it’s an isolated
limb. But there’s no use grumbling now. We can only wait and see if
she pulls through. It’s a bad business!”
Sir Clinton nodded.
“Have you everything you need? The nurses will be here as soon as
possible.”
“Miss Forrest will do in the meantime. One thing—there must be
absolute quietness in the house. I can’t have my patient disturbed in
the slightest degree. She’s unconscious again; but there must be no
risk of disturbing her later on. Complete quiet, or I won’t answer for
anything.”
He turned and left the room without waiting for any questions. The
gravity of his expression was enough to show them that he had no great
hope for Sylvia’s safety.