Long’s motionless figure, and he felt afraid. . . .
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE SHOCK OF THE SHOOTING NUMBED MANNERING’s MIND, but it was only for a moment. His brain cleared very quickly. He heard the sudden commotion below-stairs, a servant’s voice raised in alarm, and, very clearly, Lady Mary Overndon’s voice telling the girl not to make a fool of herself.
“Thank God!” muttered Mannering, for he knew that Lady Mary would use her head if no one else could.
He was on his feet in a trice, and hurried to the door. The noise of footsteps coming up the stairs grew louder. As he reached the passage he saw Lady Mary approaching, very grim and very determined.
She stopped in surprise when she saw him.
“John — you! I didn’t know you were here.”
“Just arrived,” said Mannering. His face was grim and his voice hard. “A spot of bother, Lady Mary. Keep the servants quiet, will you, and send for a doctor who can be trusted to hold his tongue.”
“Gerry?” said Lady Mary quietly.
Mannering nodded.
“He’s not. . .” There was a glimmer of real alarm in the old woman’s eyes.
“No,” said Mannering, “or it wouldn’t matter what doctor you sent for. I must get back.”
He turned, pushing the door to as Lady Mary moved away; and then for the first time he really looked at Gerry Long. He had told Lady Mary that the other wasn’t dead. For his own part he wasn’t sure. He had spoken on impulse, with the wish father to the thought. . . .
Now he looked down at Gerry Long, and saw that usually cheerful face robbed of its colour, saw the ugly wound in the forehead, and the blood coming from it. Very quickly, but moving deliberately, Mannering knelt down and raised the other’s head. With his left hand he felt for the pulse . . . .
It was beating very faintly.
The relief which surged through Mannering was almost overpowering, but he realised that the danger was not past, and that fact sobered him. The chair, he knew, had made Gerry move, and the bullet had gone slantwise across the forehead, instead of through the temple; but even if the wound was not fatal complications might prove so.
Complications! Mannering uttered a mirthless little laugh. The complications that had followed the affair of , Marie Overndon’s pearls were beyond words, and they were still multiplying. But, damn it, he mustn’t think of them now!
He hurried into the bathroom, took a bowl of tepid water, a sponge, and a towel into the bedroom, and started to wash the wound. It was not a pleasant job, but in the circumstances Mannering could not be squeamish.
With another sigh of relief he saw that the wound was not very deep. The bullet had scored the bone at one point, but as far as he could see had not broken it. Gerry was still breathing fairly regularly, and the Englishman did not ad-minister a restorative. He considered it wiser to wait for the doctor, who would be able to advise the safest course.
Lady Mary had obviously exerted all her influence to get the doctor into the house quickly, for Mannering had only just finished bathing the wound when someone tapped softly at the door. He hurried across the room as Lady Mary called out: “I’m here, John.”
He opened the door, to see Lady Mary waiting with a tall grey-faced man he had seen somewhere before. The doctor hurried into the room as Mannering pointed towards the wounded man.
“Is he . . .” began Lady Mary again.
“He’ll be all right,” said Mannering, and he managed a smile that was not wholly forced. His relief at the escape the younger man had had was very real, and he dared hardly think of the effect Long’s death would have had on him. He felt sick as he realised that the theft of the Overndon pearls had nearly resulted in the American’s suicide.
“You’re sure?” asked Lady Mary, and Mannering saw that she was looking very old and very weary.
“Quite sure,” he said, pulling a chair towards her. “But sit down.”
She smiled at him as she obeyed gladly enough.
“I often wish,” she said, “you’d married into the family, John.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” countered Mannering.
As he spoke he was thinking that if he had done, if Marie Overndon had reacted differently when he had told her that he had been worth a thousand a year, neither more nor less, this wouldn’t have happened. But it might have been worse, thank God! That was the thought that echoed time and time again through his mind.
“Who’s the doctor?” he asked.
“Saunders,” said Lady Mary. “As reliable as they’re made, my dear. There won’t be any gossip about it, that’s certain . . .”
She broke off as Saunders turned round from his patient.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said, with a quick smile. “Slight concussion, Lady Mary, and the wound, but nothing to worry about.” He looked at Mannering somewhat oddly. “There’s a rather nasty bruise on his shoulder,” he added.
Mannering did not speak, but he shrugged his shoulders.
The bruise, he knew, had been caused by the chair — and how he blessed it!
