“Nothing,” interposed Mr Dickenson, as James almost dropped into a chair with a start of horror, “Nothing that anyone says on a night like this is of the slightest consequence whatever. We don’t know what we say. What followed, George?”
“I said, ‘Oh, come now, Hugh, you had better come home. Where’s Arthur?’ And he stood up and cried out ‘Arthur! Arthur! Never—never!’ and then he rushed off out on to the heath. So,” concluded George, “I thought he was mad or something, and I ran as hard as I could to fetch someone. I never thought it was true till I saw the lock gates open and little Bessie Wood, screaming and crying, with Mysie’s wet hat; and I ran on, and there was this pink bow she wore round her neck, wet, on the path in the meadow. Oh, Jem, she’s never drowned, really—not really,” as Jem burst into tears at sight of the gay pink ribbon.
“George,” said the doctor, “you must be a man, there’s need of it. Go and fetch Mr James some wine, and drink some yourself; then come back, we shall want you. Call Wood, too.”
“I think,” said George, as he went, “someone had better look for Hugh.”
“I think so too,” said Mr Dickenson. “If Mr Crichton has any morbid ideas in his head, the sooner they are dispelled the better.”
“He could not have done it,” said James, confusedly; “she was not shot.”
“Of course not, and if she was accidentally startled by the sound of the gun no blame could attach to anyone. Here,” as George returned with the wine, “take some; we have all work before us. Wood,” he added, “do you think poor Mr Spencer right in saying Miss Crofton was startled by the sound of a gun?”
“All I know, sir, is that my daughter she screamed out, ‘The gun—the gun!’ and I ran out of the house, and Mr Arthur came tearing down from the copse without his gun. Mr Crichton he threw his away as he jumped into the water. I heard no gun in the house.”
“Neither did I,” said the doctor, “but, you see, we shall have to have their evidence to-morrow.”
“The inquest!” said James. “Ah, I never thought of that. What? Must poor Arthur?—”