Hugh swallowed once or twice, and answered. Le Sage, observant of him, could see what immense force he had to put upon himself to do so.
“The Bishop’s Walk! Can you come at once, sir? There’s been what looks like a dreadful murder there.”
Sir Calvin never so much as blenched or exclaimed. One might at least admire in him the self-possessed soldier, not to be rattled by any sudden call upon his nerve.
“Murder!” he said. “Whose murder?”
The young man’s lips quivered; he looked physically sick.
“It’s one of the maids, sir. I saw her; I came upon her myself. I had forgotten my gun, and went back to fetch it, and there she was lying on her face, and——” He put his hands before his own face and shuddered horribly.
“Look here,” said the father, “you must pull yourself together. This won’t do at all. Baron, get me my hunting flask, if you’ll be so good. It’s in the right-hand top drawer of my desk.”
He poured into the cup, with an unshaking hand, a full half gill of liqueur brandy, and made his son drink it down. It wrought a measure of effect; a tinge of colour came to Hugh’s cheek; his hurried respirations steadied.
“Now,” said Sir Calvin, “try to be coherent. What do you mean by forgetting your gun?”
“I mean, sir,”—he looked down; his features still twitched spasmodically, “I mean—it was like this. I was no good at the shoot, and I left it and came back by myself—came back by the Bishop’s Walk. Just a little way inside, I stopped to light a cigarette, and rested my gun against a tree and forgot it; but an hour later I remembered that I had left it there, and went back to fetch it, and saw—O, it was ghastly!”