Beatrice led the way into one of the back bedrooms and opened the window. Mercer crept along in the darkness cautiously until he came to a room both windows of which were lighted. One of the blinds was partly pulled up and one of the sashes raised a few inches. From beneath came a sweet, sickly scent which caused Mercer to reel as if a desire to sleep had suddenly seized him. It was only by holding his handkerchief to his mouth and nose that he was able to lie down on the balcony and peep under the blind. He could see Flower lying on his bed, apparently unconscious, with a white bandage around his forehead. He could see two figures flitting about the room, like doctors during an operation. For a moment Flower's two hands were raised above his head, then fell helplessly again by his side.
What infernal thing was going on? What black art was being practised by these miscreants? Flesh and blood could stand it no longer. Wilfrid forced the sash to its utmost capacity and dashed into the room. Seizing a chair he whirled it round his head and made a wild lunge at one of the would-be assassins. At the same time he cried out for others to follow him as if he had assistance at hand. Almost immediately the light was extinguished; there was a rustle of figures in the darkness and Wilfrid knew that he was alone. The sweat was pouring off his face with the horror of it all. He groped round the walls until he found the switch and flooded the place once more with the welcome rays. He could see the key was inside the door. He opened it widely and called for Beatrice. Then he turned to the figure on the bed. The white bandage was gone from Flower's head and he lay still and motionless. So far as Mercer could see he did not breathe. Beatrice entered full of anxiety.
"What is it?" she whispered. "Is he dead?"
"I don't know," Wilfrid said. "It is impossible to say. You must rouse the household at once and send for the nearest doctor or the nearest half-dozen for that matter. I want a brain specialist if he can be got. Will you go at once, please. Every moment is priceless."
CHAPTER XXVIII
BEYOND SURGERY
Wilfrid had to repeat his command more than once before Beatrice seemed to understand what he was saying. The girl was dazed with the horror of the thing. She stood looking at the white, still figure on the bed, marvelling what was going to happen next. And yet, at the back of her mind there was a glimmering of the truth. This was a vendetta and these relentless foes would never slack their efforts until Samuel Flower had paid the debt to the last penny. Many of these things Beatrice had read about in the pages of fiction. She had forgotten, perhaps, that there are stranger things in every-day life.
As for Wilfrid he was calm enough. His professional instincts came to his aid. Laying his hand gently upon Beatrice's shoulder he led her from the room.
"I want you to be brave and silent," he whispered. "I want you to help me all you can. It is possibly a selfish reflection, but your life is safe. If you would save your uncle, you must do what I tell you."
"I will try," Beatrice murmured. "What do you want me to do? Oh, I remember."