It would, of course, have been highly gratifying to Sir Lucius to hear Timothy Sweeny groan, but, remembering that Lord Torrington was anxious about his daughter, he denied himself the pleasure.
“If he’s groaning as loud as you say,” he said, “he can’t be quite dead. I don’t believe half a charge of No. 5 shot would kill a man like Sweeny anyway.”
“If he’s not dead,” said the sergeant, “he’s mighty near it, according to what the doctor is just after telling me. It’s likely enough that shot would prey on a man that’s as stout as Sweeny more than it might on a spare man like you honour or me. The way the shot must have been fired to get Sweeny after the fashion they did is from the top of the wall in the back yard opposite the bedroom window. By the grace of God there’s footmarks on the far side of it and a stone loosened like as if some one had climbed up it.”
“Well,” said Sir Lucius, “I’m sorry for Sweeny, but I don’t see that I can do anything to help you now. If you make out a case against any one come up to me in the evening and I’ll sign a warrant for his arrest.”
“I was thinking,” said the sergeant, “that if it was pleasing to your honour, you might take Sweeny’s depositions before you go out in the boat; just for fear he might take it into his head to die on us before evening; which would be a pity.”
“Is he able to make a deposition?” said Sir Lucius.
“He’s willing to try,” said the sergeant, “but it’s badly able to talk he is this minute.”
Sir Lucius turned to Lord Torrington.
“This is a confounded nuisance, Torrington,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to wait till I’ve taken down whatever lies this fellow Sweeny chooses to swear to. I won’t be long.”
But Lord Torrington had a proper respect for the forms of law.