"He's done it," she said, and choked a little. "He sometimes said he would. And now he's done it."
"Will you stay here? Answer me!"
"Yes! Yes, all right. If you hurry — and come back-and you do tell the truth; no, not if it's in the head. Go on!"
Inspector Potter was close beside him as he made for the room at the far end. And, as he passed, he saw out of the corner of his eye Maurice Bohun sitting on the window-seat in the embrasure of the gallery: motionless, the light along one side of his parchment face and black-pointed gray eye, his shoulders slightly lifted and one hand on his cane.
Light flooded into King Charles's room as Willard rattled back the curtain-rings. It showed a big figure in brown leather boots folded double on the floor, but being straightened out like a dummy by Masters and Dr. Wynne. There was a smell of smoke and singed cloth; John Bohun's mouth was open, and there was a thump as metal struck the carpet from his limp fingers.
More curtains billowed on the second window, and Dr. Wynne's low voice struck across the clash of rings. "Not dead yet. Got a chance. Good thing he didn't try the head; never save 'em then. They always think the heart's lower down than it is. Hah. Stop fumbling, now; leave this to me… Back, dammit!"
"You think," said Willard, stumbling. "You can-?"
"How the devil should I know yet? Shut up. Something to carry him in? Can't jolt him. Eh? — Dead-wagon? Why not? Best thing of all, if it's here."
"Hop it, Potter," said Masters. "Get the van up here, — and a stretcher. Tell 'em it's my orders. Never mind the dead 'un. Don't stand there goggling; hop it!"
There were four windows in the room: two in the left-hand wall by the panelled door to the staircase, and two in the rear wall looking down over the lawns. Their crooked panes made lattices of shadow across a big table and chair beside which John Bohun lay; a draught swooped between their loose fittings and the door, and papers flew from the table. One of them rustled free as though with an ugly life of its own and twisted along the floor towards the door. Bennett, staring at a discarded stiff shirt hanging across a chair, mechanically set his foot on the paper.