Suddenly she found Patricia beside her.
“Who was it?” gasped the girl, white-faced and shaking. “What have you done?”
“Killed him, I hope,” said Agatha Girton coolly.
She was standing on tiptoe, gazing out into the gathering dusk, trying to see the result of her shooting. But there was the hedge at the end of the Manor garden and the hedge that lined the field into which the man had passed, both hiding the more distant ground from her, and she could see no sign of him.
“Stay here while I go and see,” she commanded.
She walked quickly down the drive, and the automatic still swung in her hand. Patricia saw her enter the field.
The man was lying on the grass, sprawled out on his back. His hat had fallen off, and he stared at the sky with wide eyes. Miss Girton put down her gun and bent over him, feeling for the beating of his heart. . . .
Patricia heard the woman’s shrill scream; and then she saw Agatha Girton standing up, swaying, with her hands over her face.
The girl’s fingers closed over the butt of the automatic in her pocket as she raced down the drive and out into the road. Miss Girton was still standing up with her face in her hands, and Patricia saw with a sudden dread that blood was streaming down between the woman’s fingers. There was no trace of the man.
“He was shamming,” gasped Agatha Girton. “I put down my gun—he caught me—he had a knife. . . .”