Rather puzzled, Wendover followed him to the Australian's room.
“I happened to be passing,” he said, as he entered in response to Cargill's permission, “and I dropped in to see how you've been getting on. Leg all right now?”
“It's a bit better,” Cargill replied. “Won't you sit down?”
“Got enough to read?” Sir Clinton inquired, stepping over a pile of books which lay near Cargill's couch and picking up one of them. “I've got one or two I can lend you.”
Wendover was taken completely by surprise; for, without altering the tone of his voice, Sir Clinton bent suddenly forward and imprisoned Cargill's wrists.
“See if you can find a pistol anywhere near, squire. It's as well to be on the safe side.”
He whistled shrilly; and, before the Australian had recovered from the surprise of the attack, two constables had rushed into the room and made any attempt at a struggle impossible. Sir Clinton relaxed his grip.
“I shouldn't kick about, if I were you, Cargill. All you'll succeed in doing is to reopen that wound of yours. The game's up, you see; and you may as well take it quietly. We've got some of your friends.”
Cargill's face showed an eagerness at the words.
“Has my brother got off?”