"You fool!" he exclaimed. "I sent you out of the way on purpose. Why have you come back?"
She opened her lips, but no words came. The man on the floor groaned again. She swayed upon her feet. It was all so horrible.
"Speak, can't you!" he muttered between his teeth. "Things have gone badly here. I'm wounded, and I'm afraid—I've hurt that chap—pretty badly."
"I was in the park," she faltered, "and saw them. They are all coming back."
"Coming back?"
"They are almost here. Sir George Duncombe told me that they could not shoot because of the wind."
"The car?"
"Downstairs—waiting."
He had forgotten his hurt. He caught up his hat and a coat, and pushed her out of the room. He locked the door, and thrust the key into his pocket. As they walked down the corridor he lit a cigarette.
A footman met them in the hall.