“Then he is not very bad, doctor?” cried Dick joyfully.
“Yes, my boy, he is very bad indeed, and dangerously wounded,” replied the doctor; “but, please God, I think I can pull him through.”
“Tell me—tell me!” faltered Mrs Winthorpe piteously.
“It is a painful thing to tell a lady,” said the doctor kindly; “but I will explain. Mrs Winthorpe, he has a terrible wound. The bullet has passed obliquely through his chest; it was just within the skin at the back, and I have successfully extracted it. As far as I can tell there is no important organ injured, but at present I am not quite sure. Still I think I may say he is in no immediate danger.”
Mrs Winthorpe could not trust herself to speak, but she looked her thanks and glided toward the other room.
“Do not speak to him and do not let him speak,” whispered the doctor. “Everything depends upon keeping him perfectly still, so that nature may not be interrupted in doing her portion of the work.”
Mrs Winthorpe bowed her head in acquiescence, and with a promise that he would return later in the day the doctor departed.
Dick found, a short time after, that the news had been carried to the works at the drain, where Mr Marston was busy; and no sooner did that gentleman hear of the state of affairs than he hurried over to offer his sympathy to Mrs Winthorpe and Dick.
“I little thought that your father was to be a victim,” he said to the latter as soon as they were alone. “I have been trying my hand to fix the guilt upon somebody, but so far I have failed. Come, Dick, you and I have not been very good friends lately, and I must confess that I have been disposed to think you knew something about these outrages.”
“Yes, I knew you suspected me, Mr Marston.”