"Let it be a lesson to you in the future to keep off spirits," said Fountain severely. He stepped back and opened the door. "Now get out!"
Without a word Mark turned and shambled out.
"Well!" exploded Corkran as Fountain shut the door again. "Of all the dam' silly things to do! How do you know it wasn't he who shot old Dawson?"
"Shot Dawson?" repeated Fountain blankly. "Why the devil should he?"
"If it comes to that, why the devil should he shoot Collins?" demanded Corkran. He watched the valet disappear through the swing door at the end of the hall. "I don't say I altogether blame him, but…'
"Tony, don't be so awful!" begged Joan. She was still trembling from the shock of the sudden gun-shot. "Mr. Amberley, you don't think he's the murderer, do you?"
"No, I think it extremely unlikely," he replied.
"All right, say he didn't." Anthony was standing obstinately by his guns. "Why did he come snooping up here? Don't say because he was tight, because I shall be sick if I hear that again. If I went bursting into a strange house and tried to shoot up the place and then said I was tight by way of excuse, would you be satisfied with that? Like hell you would! That chap wanted to shoot up someone to start with. Then he had four or five drinks and thought: By Jove, I'll go straight off and do it. Don't tell me that just because a fellow's three sheets in the wind it's the natural reaction for him to get hold of a gun, stagger off several miles to a house he's never been near before, and turn it into a shooting gallery. It's childish."
"Perfectly true," said Amberley. "If I found you forcing your way into a strange house I should think the worst. But you are not an unbalanced person. This youth is."
"What-ho!" said Anthony, gratified. "The old brainbox full of grey matter, eh?"