But Penelope could restrain herself no longer. The heartlessness of her sister-in-law overcame her prudence, and she interrupted the scornful mistress of the house, her eyes blazing, but her voice under perfect control. Her tall young figure was tense, and her fingers clasped the back of Miss Folsom's chair rather rigidly.
“I suppose you know what happened this morning,” she said, with such apparent restraint that every one looked at her expectantly.
“Do you mean in connection with Mr.—with Jack-the-Giant-Killer?” asked her ladyship, her eyes brightening.
“Some one of your servants shot him this morning,” said Penelope with great distinctness. There was breathless silence in the room.
“Shot him?” gasped Lord Bazelhurst, his thin red face going very white.
“Not—not fatally?” exclaimed Evelyn, aghast in spite of herself.
“No. The instructions were carried out. His wound in the arm is trifling. But the coward was not so generous when it came to the life of his innocent, harmless dog. He killed the poor thing. Evelyn, it's—it's like murder.”
“Oh,” cried her ladyship, relieved. “He killed the dog. I daresay Mr. Shaw has come to realize at last that we are earnest in this. Of course I am glad that the man is not badly hurt. Still, a few shot in the arm will hardly keep him in bounds. His legs were intended,” she laughed lightly. “What miserable aim Tompkins must take.”
“He's a bit off in his physiology, my dear,” said Cecil, with a nervous attempt at humour. He did not like the expression in his sister's face. Somehow, he was ashamed.
“Oh, it's bad enough,” said Penelope. “It was his left arm—the upper arm, too. I think the aim was rather good.”