“Where did you get that, eh? That’s my best air-gun!”
“That’s the thing that may have killed your sister, then,” said Wendover, looking mistrustfully at Arthur’s disturbed face. “I found it in that clump of rhododendrons out there. It had been jammed right into the middle of the bushes; that’s why it took so long to find.”
He looked Arthur up and down for a moment; then, disregarding the owner’s outstretched hand, he passed the air-gun to Sir Clinton, who took it from him without a word. Arthur stepped forward angrily as though to recover his property; but at that moment a fresh interruption occurred. Again the door opened, but this time the grim figure of Ardsley appeared on the threshold. He waited for a moment until he saw that he had secured the attention of them all, then he turned towards Sir Clinton and gave him his verdict.
“This is a bad business! Of course, she’s still alive; and there’s a chance yet. It’s a pity you didn’t think of a tourniquet at the moment—prevent any risk of the stuff spreading, since it’s an isolated limb. But there’s no use grumbling now. We can only wait and see if she pulls through. It’s a bad business!”
Sir Clinton nodded.
“Have you everything you need? The nurses will be here as soon as possible.”
“Miss Forrest will do in the meantime. One thing—there must be absolute quietness in the house. I can’t have my patient disturbed in the slightest degree. She’s unconscious again; but there must be no risk of disturbing her later on. Complete quiet, or I won’t answer for anything.”
He turned and left the room without waiting for any questions. The gravity of his expression was enough to show them that he had no great hope for Sylvia’s safety.
Chapter XIII.
The Dart
The period immediately following the attack upon Sylvia was one of intense inquietude in Wendover’s mind. Up to that point he had persuaded himself that the affairs at Whistlefield would eventually prove to be linked up in some way with the Hackleton case. The connection of some of the incidents—the attack on Ernest Shandon, for one—had certainly been obscure; but Wendover had nursed an irrational belief that in the end all the threads would lead back to Hackleton, and that the whole mystery would find a simple explanation which would bring it within the borders of normal motives and sane sequences of actions.