“Wounded?” cried Sholmes.
“No,” replied Wilson.
Wilson seized the man by the body and tried to hold him, but the man turned and plunged a knife into Wilson’s breast. He uttered a groan, staggered and fell.
“Damnation!” muttered Sholmes, “if they have killed him I will kill them.”
He laid Wilson on the grass and rushed toward the ladder. Too late—the man had climbed the fence and, accompanied by his confederates, had fled through the bushes.
“Wilson, Wilson, it is not serious, hein? Merely a scratch.”
The house door opened, and Monsieur d’Imblevalle appeared, followed by the servants, carrying candles.
“What’s the matter?” asked the baron. “Is Monsieur Wilson wounded?”
“Oh! it’s nothing—a mere scratch,” repeated Sholmes, trying to deceive himself.
The blood was flowing profusely, and Wilson’s face was livid. Twenty minutes later the doctor ascertained that the point of the knife had penetrated to within an inch and a half of the heart.