Chris Kennedy was already picking himself up when they reached him. He was very white, and his left hand grasped his other wrist, from which the blood was streaming.
‘They got my near-side front wheel and my driving arm,’ he gasped, as they came up. ‘There’s a bloke somewhere about who can shoot like hell.’
He swayed a little on the last word, and smiled valiantly. ‘Do you mind if we get in?’ he murmured. ‘This thing is turning me sick.’
They got him back to the house and into the room where they had all been standing. As they crossed the lawn, Abbershaw, glancing up at the second-floor windows, fancied he saw a heavy expressionless face peering out at them from behind the dark curtains.
The rescue party was considerably subdued. They were beginning to believe in the sincerity of Mr Benjamin Dawlish’s remarks.
Kennedy collapsed into a chair, and, after saving him from the tender ministrations of Anne Edgeware, Abbershaw was just about to set out in search of warm water and a dress shirt to tear up as a bandage, when there was a discreet tap on the door and a man-servant entered bearing a complete surgical outfit together with antiseptic bandages and hot water.
‘With Mr Gideon’s compliments,’ he said gravely, and went out.
Kennedy smiled weakly.
‘Curse their dirty politeness,’ he said, and bowed his head over his injured wrist.
Abbershaw removed his coat and went over to the tray which the man had brought.