“What he says is true,” continued Lacey, flushing now. “It must be. There have been so many things to prove that Smithson—”
“S’Richard, sir,” cried Jerry.
“Well, that the young man we are going to see is a gentleman. I believe it all, Colonel; for, to my sorrow, I know Mark Frayne is little better than a sharper and a cheat.”
“Mind what you are saying, Mr Lacey,” cried the colonel sternly.
“I can prove my words, sir,” said Lacey firmly.
“Go on, and see what is the matter,” said the colonel. “Gentlemen, will you excuse me? Major, will you come to my quarters? I should like a word.”
Lacey, the doctor, and Jerry went off at once, and ten minutes later they were at the bedside of Richard Frayne, who was slowly recovering after the young doctor’s bandaging, and was talking wildly, but with sufficient coherence about the scene among the hops to let his hearers grasp the fact that this was no attempt at suicide, but a would-be murderer’s deed.
The colonel and major left the barracks some time later, and were driven up to the quarters of the colonel of the 310th, who looked surprised at the visit, but said en passant—
“I have just heard that your missing bandsman has been found. Suicide, I suppose?”
“Or attempted murder!” said the colonel gravely. “We have come about that.”