And as this picture forced itself upon Wendover, he began to feel the nightmare growing more intense. It seemed almost incredible that Ernest Shandon, a creature despised by everyone for his shiftlessness and futility, could have planned and carried through this murderous work. Wendover, since he had been brought into intimate contact with Ernest, had felt nothing but boredom and derision. The man’s dullness, his cowardice, his selfishness, had all impressed themselves strongly on the Squire; and had produced a definite feeling of repulsion and contempt. Now he had to readjust his ideas. The dullness must have been merely an exaggeration; the cowardice had been a sham, since the murderer had no reason to fear anything for his own skin; and the selfishness—why, that was only a manifestation of callousness without which no planned murder could be carried through. Instead of the insignificant figure which he had hitherto encountered, Wendover began to see instead a fresh personality hidden behind the mask: something going coldly to its deadly work, unrestrained by any normal feelings of humanity or even kinship, a modern Minotaur in the labyrinth of the Maze.
Almost appalled by the vividness of the portrait which his mind had conjured up, Wendover stared across the grass at the wall of greenery which concealed from his gaze the actual form of the murderer. Then, as he gazed, there came once more the report of the automatic pistol—a single shot.
And once more the waiting recommenced, unbroken by any incident.
At last Sir Clinton appeared, with his gun at the trail, round the corner of the Maze. He signalled to Wendover and Arthur to rejoin him.
“I think that’s the end of the business,” he said with stern satisfaction, as they came up. “If I’m not much mistaken, that last shot was for himself. The game was up; and he must have been half-dead with the fumes by now.”
He turned to Arthur.
“Do you see now why I wouldn’t let you touch him? If you had, then we’d have had all the bother of a trial for manslaughter at the least; and I don’t guarantee that things would have gone smoothly in it. As it is, he’s suicided; and no one’s to blame but himself. And if you wanted to put the screw on him, could you have given it a harder turn than this?”
He pointed towards the sulphur station.
Arthur saw the point.
“I expect you’re right,” he admitted, coughing as a fresh cloud of fumes drifted down upon them. “He must have had his dose before he gave in. You think that there’s no doubt that he’s shot himself?”