“Yes, that's the best thing,” she approved. “I'll come with you.”
“Better not, Aunt Miriam.”
“Nonsense! There may be something we can do for the poor man. You don't imagine I mean to be sick, do you?”
“Oh, Aunt Miriam, couldn't I go with Charles?” begged Abby. “I know all about First Aid, and—”
“Certainly not! You'll stay here and look after Mavis.”
“I can't—I mean, you'd do it much better! Do let me be the one to go with Charles!” Abby said, following them down the garden.
“Absolutely not,” said Charles, in a voice that admitted of no argument. “Hop in, Aunt Miriam!”
He slammed the car-door on Miss Patterdale, got into his own seat, and started the engine. As the car shot forward, he said: “Of all the damned, silly wet hens, that girl takes the biscuit! A child in arms would have had sense enough to have rung the police! Blithering idiot! I say, Aunt Miriam, what on earth do you think can have really happened?”
“I have no idea. It sounds as though somebody was shooting rabbits. I'm not at all surprised. I've often thought it most dangerous to allow it on the common.”
The distance between Fox Cottage and Fox House was very short, and they had already reached their goal. The house was set back from the lane, from which it was separated by a low hedge. It had no carriage sweep, a separate gate and straight gravel drive having been made beside the garden to enable Mr. Warrenby to garage his car in a modern building erected a little to the rear of the house. Charles drew up outside the wicket-gate giving access to a footpath leading to the front-door, and switched off his engine. In another minute he and Miss Patterdale had entered the garden, and were bending over the lifeless form of Sampson Warrenby, slumped on a wooden seat set under an oak-tree, and at right angles to the lane.