Sir Clinton had let him run on; but quite evidently he had no intention of wasting much time listening to Ernest’s lamentations.
“Miss Forrest must be resting just now, I suppose?”
“Yes,” Ernest assured him, “she was up helping Ardsley until the nurses came; and after that she didn’t seem able to sleep, so she sat up for a while. Ardsley came down and found her in the early morning, so he sent her off to bed. So he told me. I had gone to bed myself some time before.”
Sir Clinton made no comment and Ernest proceeded with his complaints.
“What I feel is that the police aren’t doing anything. Why haven’t you arrested somebody? My nerves are beginning to wear thin under this strain, I tell you. Here we have some murderer haunting the neighbourhood. He kills my brothers; he attacks me; he brings my niece to death’s door—and all the time the police look on with their hands in their pockets. What are they paid for? That’s what I ask you. Why don’t they lay hands on the fellow? What sort of a life do you think I’m leading just now? Every time I go outside the house I have the feeling that the scoundrel may be lurking behind the next bush, getting his gun ready. That’s a pretty state of things. And not a finger do you lift to help!”
“I offered you a guard of constables for Whistlefield not so long ago, Mr. Shandon. You refused it then. I’m sorry it isn’t available now. I have other work for my men at present.”
Ernest was somewhat taken aback by this reminder.
“So you did, so you did. I’d forgotten that.”
Sir Clinton seemed inclined to accept this as an apology.
“I should like to see Mr. Stenness for a moment in private, if you don’t mind, Mr. Shandon. Could you send him to me?”
Ernest evidently felt that he had let his tongue run away with him. Possibly some faint realisation of the display of cowardice which he had made was dawning upon his mind. At any rate, he hastened to meet Sir Clinton’s wish.
“I’ll hunt him up and send him to you,” he announced with surprising conciseness; and he left the room without further talk.
While they were waiting for Stenness the door opened and Arthur Hawkhurst came in. Rather to Wendover’s surprise he showed no trace of the ill-feeling which he had displayed so strongly on the previous night. Instead, he seemed rather shamefaced; and he opened in an unexpected vein.
“I behaved like a young cub last night, Sir Clinton,” he admitted frankly. “I daresay I said a lot of things that I shouldn’t have said. But you know quite well”—his teeth showed in an engaging smile—“I was badly upset. Anyone might be, I think. Poor Sylvia! I’m deuced fond of her, you know. She’s about the only person in the world that matters a tinker’s curse to me. So naturally I wasn’t quite levelheaded; and I daresay I said things I shouldn’t have said.”
“That’s all right,” Sir Clinton assured him. “I understood perfectly how you felt. Forget it, and don’t worry. You’ve trouble enough without bothering about trifles just now.”
Arthur nodded a gloomy acquiescence.
“Have you any notion why the thing was done?”
Sir Clinton was careful not to give a direct answer.
“We’re doing our best.”
Arthur’s eye lighted up.
“I wish you’d let me take a hand. Perhaps I could be of some use?”
“Not just at present, I’m afraid.”
Arthur took the rejection badly.
“Nothing to hinder my working on my own, then, is there? You can’t prevent that. And if I come across the brute you needn’t expect to be allowed to butt in then, you know. I’ll tackle him myself. Hanging’s too good for him.”
“I agree with you there,” Sir Clinton said unguardedly. Then he added with a faint smile: “We’re speaking quite unofficially, of course.”
Arthur looked up suspiciously.
“I’m not quite sure what you mean. But what I mean’s quite plain and can be put into plain English. If I can lay my hands on the man who tried to murder Sylvia, he’ll wish for a decent hanging before I’m done with him. I’ll …”
“That’s enough, Mr. Hawkhurst,” Sir Clinton interrupted sharply. “We don’t want to hear about it.”
Arthur’s temper boiled up at the words. Wendover, glancing at his face, saw the features contorted in hardly-restrained fury. With an effort, the boy fought down his anger until he could speak.
“If anything happens to Sylvia I’ll get the brute yet; and then he’ll wish he’d never been born. That’s that!”
He swung round on his heel and left the room.
Sir Clinton sighed slightly as the door closed.
“Oh, Lord!” he exclaimed softly, as if to himself. “I hadn’t reckoned on that. This is growing devilishly complicated.”
Wendover had pricked up his ears.
“What’s the trouble now?”
Sir Clinton seemed to realise that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.
“It’s another factor that I hadn’t allowed for,” he admitted. But he refused to divulge anything further; and Wendover had to content himself with the cryptic phrase.
Stenness did not keep them waiting
