The boy seemed to enjoy springing a sensation on them.
“Beg y'r pardon, sir, but he can't come. He's upstairs in bed. He's been shot. Mrs. Fleetwood brought him back in her car, sir, a few minutes ago; and they had to carry him up to his room. The doctor's been sent for.”
Sir Clinton laid down his cards, and made a brief apology to the others for interrupting the game.
“You'd better come along with me, squire. We have to break up the table, in any case.”
Followed by Wendover, he ascended to the Australian's room. They found Cargill lying on his bed with some rough bandages round his ankle, and evidently in considerable pain.
“Sorry to hear you've had an accident,” Sir Clinton said sympathetically, as he bent down and inspected the dressings. “That seems good enough to serve until the doctor comes. Who put it on for you?”
“Mrs. Fleetwood,” Cargill answered. “She seemed to know a bit about first aid work.”
Sir Clinton, rather to Wendover's surprise, asked no leading question, but awaited Cargill's explanation. The Australian did not keep them in suspense.
“I sent a message down for you because you're the Lord High Muck-a-muck in the police hereabouts; and the sooner the police get hold of the beggar who tried to do me in, the better I'll be pleased. It's no advertisement for a new hotel to have one of its guests half murdered within a week of his arrival.”
“True. Suppose you explain what happened.”