“Is—is it dangerous?” faltered Sir Harry.
“Dangerous enough for you to be more silent,” said Mellersh. “Another handkerchief, please. That’ll do. Yes. I’ll use both. There, Sir Harry,” he said, as he bound up the prostrate man’s arm, “we are only a mile from the barracks. You must contrive to walk.”
“Sick as a dog,” muttered Sir Harry; but he struggled to his feet with a little help. “Don’t—don’t let that little beast Burnett come near me. Mellersh, your arm.”
There was no need for his desire to be attended to, for Burnett had stood looking on for a few minutes, and then gone off, to be slowly followed by the others, the wounded man being compelled by faintness to halt from time to time till the barrack gate was reached.
Half an hour later Lord Carboro’ was in consultation with Barclay, Mellersh, and Linnell outside the Denvilles’ house.
“Gravani?” said Lord Carboro’, “to be sure—Louis Gravani. I gave him some painting to do when he was here. Italian—and the knife—a former lover, of course?”
“Mrs Barclay tells me, my lord,” said Barclay, gravely, “that he was really Mrs Burnett’s husband.”
“Dick,” said Mellersh, as they were walking slowly back, “of what are you thinking?”
“Of Claire.”
Mellersh said no more, but when they reached home sat musing over the fact that there was a light in Cora’s window, and that she was looking out. But it was not for him.