“Oh, no, no! It isn't that! Oh, poor Uncle! I knew I oughtn't to have left him alone like that! I shall never forgive myself!”
“Look here!” said Charles, who was becoming bored with Mavis's exclamatory and obscure style of narrative. “Just what has happened to your uncle?”
She turned dilating eyes towards him. “I think—I think he's dead!” she said, shuddering.
“Dead?” Charles repeated incredulously. “Do you mean he's had a stroke, or something?”
She began to cry again. “No, no, no! It's much, much more dreadful. He's been shot!”
“Good God!” said Charles blankly. “But—”
“For heaven's sake, girl!” interrupted Miss Patterdale. “You say you think he's dead. Surely you didn't come here, leaving the unfortunate man alone, without making certain there was nothing you could do for him?”
Mavis covered her face with her hands. “I—I know he's dead. I thought he was asleep, and it seemed so unlike him, somehow. I went up to him, and then I saw!”
“You saw what?” said Miss Patterdale, as Mavis broke off. “Try to pull yourself together!”
“Yes. I'm sorry. It's been such a shock. In the side of his head—just here—” she pressed her left temple—”a—hole! Oh, don't ask me! And I heard it! I didn't think anything about it at the time. I was just getting over the stile at the top of the lane, and I heard a gun fired. It made me jump, because it sounded quite close, but of course I only thought it was somebody shooting rabbits. And then I opened the garden-gate, and saw Uncle on the seat under the oak-tree . . .”