“Nothing of the sort; you will be all right in time,” said Philip.
“No; I’m a dead man; and ... I’ll tell you what, I’m ... glad of it!” He said this with all the emphasis at his command. By-and-by he added, “What about the ... old gentleman?”
“Shot through the heart.”
Several minutes passed, and Philip thought that Tom was relapsing into unconsciousness, when he suddenly exclaimed: “Do you mean to say he’s dead?”
“He died instantly.”
“Give me ... some water,” said Tom, with a ghastly expression; and after he had drank, he continued, “I tried to help; but when I heard his voice” ... he broke off abruptly.
“Whose voice? Oh, you mean Marion’s—Miss Lockhart.”
“Very likely,” said Tom. “I’d better tell you how it all came on: I shan’t be of any use by the time the inquest begins. I rode over the river to meet him ... to give the letter, you know. Took the wrong road, but he’d taken it, too, so ... we rode along together, talking, first about Perdita: then he spoke of Miss Lockhart ... she was on his mind; he liked her, didn’t he?”
“That’s strange!” muttered Philip to himself.
“And we talked about ... well, no matter! Then my girths got loose and I got down to tighten ’em, and he rode on. Just as I was mounting I heard another horse coming along ... and there seemed to be some row.... I rode up. I heard him say, ‘Hand it over, or....’ ”