“The accident ...” she began.
“Accident?” Dr. Wells repeated. “Dear, dear. We have so few accidents, fortunately. Is it a fracture?”
“Accidental shooting, doctor,” the prince informed him. “The wound is in the shoulder.” He must have removed her bowknot bandage in the dining room, because it was no longer there when he slipped his coat off. Dr. Wells produced a huge pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, which he put on over his small gold-rimmed ones.
“Tst—tst—tst,” he muttered, peering, first from one side, then from the other; “dear, dear. Yes, yes. It might very well have caused your death, if it had been in some other part of the body. Yes, indeed, not so slight as it appears, Mr.—” He paused, looking from one to the other, inquiringly. Thinking his tentative query had not been heard he repeated it, loudly, “Mr. ——?”
“Er—Mr. ——” Rosamond stammered, quickly. “Dr. Wells didn’t quite catch your name.”
“My name? Er—Mills. Yes. Mr. Mills. With two l’s,” he added; as though to prove the name his own, by showing that he could spell it; or, as inept liars always overdo matters, by adding a second fib to throw suspicion on the first. “I was passing along the road from Trenton. Some constables were out hunting a tramp who had alarmed the neighbourhood. Some one shouted ‘halt.’ I supposed it was an attempted hold-up. So I spurred on; and got a bullet in my shoulder.”
In the pleasant relief of this plausible tale, Mrs. Mearely embarked upon prevaricating ventures of her own.
“I—I had been sitting here reading, and just as I was—er—about to retire—I heard voices—and a shot. So—so—I ran out. And when I saw what had happened—er—I had Mr. Woods....”
“Mills,” he corrected her, quickly, “with two l’s.”
“Mr. Mills—with two l’s. Thank you. I had Mr. Mills brought here. Then I sent for you.”