“After the brute, Wendover!” Sir Clinton ordered, raising his voice above the clamour of the loudspeaker. “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 loudspeaker 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
