He and Nasmyth took charge of the situation, sternly refusing to listen to all well-meant suggestions, until at last the doctor and Marple came hurrying across the field. The former hastily examined the injured man and then looked up at Nasmyth.
“Upper arm gone, close to the shoulder joint,” he announced. “Collar-bone too. I’ll give him some brandy. Shout to those fellows with the stretcher.”
He was busy for some time, and in the meanwhile Batley picked up the flask he had laid down and handed it to Gladwyne.
“Take a good drink and pull yourself together,” he said quietly.
At length Lisle was gently lifted on to the stretcher, and as they carried him away the report of a gun ran out. The onlookers dispersed and Gladwyne was walking home alone when Millicent overtook him. She was puzzled by his limp appearance and the expression of his haggard face. It was only natural that he should keenly feel his responsibility for the accident, but this did not quite seem to account for the man’s condition. He looked absolutely unnerved, like one who had barely escaped from some appalling catastrophe.
“You shouldn’t take it quite so much to heart,” she comforted him. “I don’t think Irvine felt any great uneasiness; and nobody could blame you.”
“You’re the only one who has said so,” he answered moodily.
“They couldn’t; you stole away. Of course, it’s a great pity—I’m distressed—but you must try to be sensible. These accidents happen.”
He walked on a while in silence, and then with an effort looked around at her.
“Millicent,” he said, “you’re wonderfully generous—the sight of anybody in trouble stirs you—but I don’t feel able to bear your sympathy.”