There was a crackling in the bushes. Sir Benjamin, his cap crushed down like a gangster in a motion picture, pushed through. His long arms dangled out of his sleeves, and you could see the freckles against the muddy pallor of his face.
"He — he got away," the chief constable said rather hoarsely. "I don't know who he was. I don't even know what happened. Who's this?"
"Look at him," said Rampole. "He must have tried to stop… the other one. Didn't you hear the shot? For God's sake let's get him to your car and down to the village. Take his feet, will you? — I'll get his head. Try not to jolt him."
It was a heavy weight. It had a habit of sagging between them, as when two people try to move a large mattress. Rampole found his chest tight and his muscles aching. They staggered through the scratching arms of bushes, and out across the long slope to where Sir Benjamin's Daimler was parked in the road.
"You'd better stay here on guard," the chief constable said, when they had steadied Budge in the tonneau. "Miss Starberth, will you ride in to Dr. Markley's with me and hold him on the rear seat? Thank you. Steady, now, while I turn round."
The last sight Rampole had was of her holding Budge's head in her lap as the motor churned into life, and the big headlamps swung. When he turned to go back towards the prison, he found he was so weak that he had to lean against the fence. His brain, tired and stupid, moved round like a creaky wheel. So there he was, clinging to the fence in the clear moonlight, and still holding Budge's crushed hat in one hand.
He glanced at it, dully, and let it fall. Herbert Starberth
A light was coming closer. Dr. Fell's bulk waddled above the grey meadow.
"Halloa there!" the doctor called, poking his chins forward. He came up and put his hand on Rampole's shoulder. "Good man," he said after a pause. "Well? What happened? Who was hurt?"
The doctor tried to speak levelly, but his voice grew high. He went on: