“Miss Hawkhurst has been shot with one of those poisoned darts. Come along and see if there’s anything we can do.”
Ernest was quite evidently reduced to the last stage of moral prostration by the news. He had not even sufficient nerve left to cover up his cowardice.
“Eh? What’s that? Come out there and be shot at myself? I won’t!”
“Well, stay there, then!” Wendover growled, continuing his way back to the window through which he had come.
“I tell you what I’ll do,” he heard Ernest’s voice again. “I’ll go into the house by the other door of the winter-garden and come round to where you are. I’ll be under cover the whole way if I do that.”
The sound of the winter-garden door closing and the turning of the key in the lock came to Wendover’s ears as he reopened the window and climbed through, shutting it behind him.
Sylvia was still lying on the couch, evidently unconscious. Sir Clinton was beside her and, much to Wendover’s surprise, some lint and bandages had been laid out on the bridge-table which had been pulled across the room.
“Miss Forrest,” the Chief Constable said curtly, “will you bring some warm water? Get it yourself. These maids are no use in an emergency. And tell them to get Miss Hawkhurst’s room ready for her—immediately. A hot-water bottle as quick as they can—and some brandy.”
Vera was so quick that she had to pause at the door for his last directions.
“You Wendover,” went on Sir Clinton, “get Ardsley on the ’phone at once. Tell him I want him here at Whistlefield.”