“Good Lord! Has your father—”
For an instant, Hart was nearly alarmed, but Grant’s voice came authoritatively:
“It’s all right, Bates. Let go, I tell you!”
“Phew!” said Hart. “I was on the point of confusing your respected dad with Owd Ben ... That’s it, ma! Sniff hard! As a cook you’re worth your weight in gold, which is some cook.”
Meanwhile, Furneaux, seeing that no dead body was stretched on the strip of grass beneath the window, dashed into the shrubbery to the right, and was clutched in a mighty embrace by an older but much more powerful man in Bates, who had hurried from the front of the house on hearing the pistol-shot. Most fortunately, the gardener, deeming his vigil a needless one, had not armed himself with a stick, or the consequences might have been grave. As it was, no one except Hart had been vouchsafed sight or sound of the latest specter, which, however, had left a very convincing souvenir of its visit in the shape of a soft felt hat with two bullet holes through the crown.
Furneaux, quivering with silent wrath, soon abandoned the search when this pièce de conviction was found at the root of the Dorothy Perkins rose-tree. Seeing the lamp relighted, he peremptorily bade Grant and Bates come in with him. He closed the window, adjusted the blind again, and poured generous measures of port wine into two glasses. Handing one to Bates, he took the other himself.
“Friend,” he said, “some men have fame thrust upon them, but you have achieved it. To-night you pierced the heel of Achilles. Here’s to you!”
“I dunno wot ’ee’s saying mister, but ‘good health’,” said Bates, swigging the wine with gusto.
“Now, for your master’s sake, not a word to a soul about this hubbub.”
“Right you are, sir! But that there pryin’ Robinson wur on t’ bridge five minutes since. And, by gum, here he is!”