He bathed the wound again, then turned to Wendover.
“You saw no one?”
Wendover shook his head.
“It’s practically pitch dark tonight. 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 airgun. 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,
