“Have you no idea of his identity, Mr Wise?” the doctor asked.
“Yes; I have an idea,—and if he does not come tonight, I will tell you who I think he is. But we will wait and see.”
They waited, now silent and now indulging in a few low toned bits of conversation, when at two o’clock in the morning the report of the gun brought them to their feet and they raced to the kitchen.
The roaring detonation was still in their ears as they strode through the hall, and the smell of powder greeted them at the kitchen door.
The cellar door was open, and on the floor near it lay a man breathing with difficulty.
Doctor Varian dropped on his knees beside him, and his professional instinct was at once in full working order, even as his astonished voice exclaimed:
“Lawrence North!”
“As I expected,” Wise said, “and well he deserves his fate. Will he live, Doctor?”
“Only a few moments,” was the preoccupied reply. “I can do nothing for him. He received the full charge in the abdomen.”
“Tell your story, North,” Wise said, briefly; “don’t waste time in useless groaning.”