“Fatal? Oh dear me, no. Oh no, certainly not. Only a flesh-wound. A mere trifle.”
“A trifle?” Mrs. Witherby could not believe her ears.
“How did it happen?” Howard was trying to hasten the explanation by keeping rigidly to the point.
“Well—er—as nearly as I can make out—er—the constable—yes, it was the constable—mistook Mr.—er—the man for a tramp, and immediately fired.”
“And nearly killed Mrs. Mearely?” Corinne’s impatience broke bounds.
“Eh? What?” The doctor had removed his horn-rimmed glasses and was polishing them.
Howard, with a supreme effort, mastered his irritation.
“The bullet struck my cousin?—how?”
“Oh, dear me, no. Oh dear, no.” He breathed on the lenses and rubbed them back and forth through a silk handkerchief. “Ah, I see. You also are under the impression that Mrs. Mearely is the invalid.”
“Is she all right?” Corinne shook his arm.