“One can’t tell,” was all he would vouchsafe. “Get these nurses at once.”
And with this he turned on his heel and reentered 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 fireplace. 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 airgun 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 airgun.
“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 airgun!”
“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 airgun 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
