The smoke cleared. Lord Roxhythe was lying inert upon the floor. Below his right shoulder a great red patch was growing, growing.
Crewe stared numbly. The patch was creeping over my lord’s coat, soon it would trickle down on to the carpet. It seemed a pity. Crewe tried to imagine what it would look like when the steadily flowing blood should have reached the floor. It would spoil the carpet; he thought that bloodstains never came out, but he was not sure.
Along the passage came the sound of footsteps, running. The door was tried; voices called; someone was trying to burst open the lock.
The noise dispelled some of the mists that were gathering about Crewe’s mind.
“Wait! wait!” He fumbled in his pocket for the key, and finding it, thrust it into the lock with cold, trembling fingers. …
The room seemed full of people. They were gathered about my lord’s body, talking excitedly. No one noticed him. How foolish they were! Why try to staunch that blood? Roxhythe was dead. He, Crewe, had killed him. … How still Roxhythe lay! He could not look at him. He leant against the wall, sick and cold.
Into the confusion came Christopher, swiftly.
“What is it? I thought I heard—” he stopped short seeing the agitated group at one end of the room. Like a flash he was across the floor and had thrust two of the men aside.
Crewe watched covertly. The red patch was growing and growing; it had reached the carpet. What fools they were! Why did they not stop it?
Christopher gave a strangled cry. He was down beside my lord, agonized, feeling for his heart.
“My God, no!” he whispered. “Not dead! Not dead!”
Those around grew suddenly quiet.
Christopher lifted his head from my lord’s breast.
“He is alive. James, run for the nearest surgeon! Quickly!”
The man hurried out.
“John?” He was staunching the blood with deft, tender fingers, as he spoke.
Roxhythe’s old servant stood before him, shaking.
Christopher looked up.
“Get me linen and water!”
John fled.
“The rest of you, go!” said Christopher. His eyes fell on Crewe, leaning against the wall, face averted.
“Crewe!”
A footman pushed forward.
“Ay, sir! He came an hour since, and forced himself into the room. I thought that he was queer-like then—”
“Fool! Why did you let him in?”
“But, sir! My lord said—”
“Oh ay, ay! See that he does not escape now. My God, if Roxhythe dies—!”
Two lackeys seized Sir Henry’s arms and stood holding him. The rest, in obedience to Christopher’s commands, drifted away.
John came running with linen and water. Between them, he and Christopher bound the wound tightly, and straightened my lord’s limbs. Then, after what seemed an interminable time, Mr. Burnest, the surgeon, appeared, and attended to the wound.
Christopher watched breathlessly as his hands moved about my lord.
Burnest finished his examination.
“By God’s mercy it has not touched the lung. He will live.”
The colour came flooding back to Christopher’s cheeks. John fell on his knees beside the writing-table, sobbing thankfully.
Crewe’s voice, hoarse, unlike himself, cut across the room.
“He’ll live, you say?”
Christopher swung round fiercely.
“No thanks to you, you damned scoundrel!”
Burnest looked up quickly.
“What’s that?” he said sharply.
Before anyone had time to answer Roxhythe stirred. Christopher was beside him in a moment, and knelt down on the floor holding one of the beautifully shaped hands in his.
The deep brown eyes opened. They were puzzled; then the bewilderment faded, and amusement took its place. My lord regarded the surgeon silently. Then he looked at Christopher. Lastly he frowned.
“God’s Body! My new coat!”
At the sound of the faint voice, Christopher gave vent to a shaky laugh of relief and pressed my lord’s hand to his lips. Roxhythe saw the blood on his sleeve.
“Ruined!” he said. He showed a tendency to rise, and was suppressed.
“My lord, you must be still!” commanded Burnest.
“If you think I shall continue to lie on this devilish hard floor, you are mistaken,” said Roxhythe faintly. “Chris!”
Christopher bent over him.
“I implore you to lie still, sir. If you move you will start the bleeding again.”
“Send for James and another. I’ll be lifted to the couch.” He saw Christopher glance at the surgeon. “I mean it, Chris.”
Burnest knew Roxhythe of old. He shrugged.
In five minutes my lord was reposing on the sofa, his wig straight, his side neatly bandaged. Burnest gave him a restorative and his voice grew stronger.
John was standing by his side, holding the empty glass. There was a look of dumb agony in his eyes.
Roxhythe stretched out his hand.
“My dear John, I am not like to die this time.”
John kissed his hand. Tears were running down his cheeks.
“My lord—my lord—”
“Yes. Go and get some canary for Mr. Burnest. Take it into the library.” He turned his head and saw Crewe, standing between the two footmen. He surveyed his servants coldly.
“What do you think you are doing?”
One of them fidgeted uncomfortably.
“My lord, Mr. Dart said—”
“You have my permission to go.”
They glanced at Christopher, irresolute.
“I gave an order.” Roxhythe’s voice was icy.
Both men left the room hastily.
“Mr. Burnest, Chris will take you into the library. You must be thirsty after your run.”
“No, I thank you, sir. I am waiting to bleed you.”
“You are very kind,” said Roxhythe. “You will have to wait quite half an hour.”
“Indeed, no! It is imperative!”
“My good friend this is not the first time that I have been wounded. Chris, take him away.”
“I cannot, sir. I beg you will be reasonable.”
“You fatigue me,” sighed his lordship. “I am in the middle of a discussion with Sir Henry. I cannot be interrupted in this fashion.”
“There has already been an interruption! I want to know what it was!” cried Christopher.
“You always were inquisitive. Sir Henry has been showing me his pistols which are of a very exquisite workmanship. Unhappily they have a tricky way of exploding—as you see.”
“That will not suffice, sir. You cannot put me off with such an explanation!”
The brown eyes were like stones.
“That is my explanation. Any who doubt my word may come and tell me.”
“Sir, I know something of what lies behind! I—”
“Take Mr. Burnest to
