"So," said Bert, through his teeth; "what do you know of this butchery?"
"It was Otis. He was out after you. She fought with him, and got hold of the pistol," panted Arnie, in his unaccustomed English.
"I don't believe a word you say. If Otis meant murder he wouldn't have brought a witness along."
"There were two pistols," said Arnie, gulping down a sob. "Did you find the one I threw down?"
"Yes—what of it?"
"There were to be two shots. I was to swear you fired first, and he only in self-defence. Let me get you some water, and tell me where to run for a doctor."
There was sense in this proposition, and after a moment's rapid thought, Bert availed himself of it. There was practically no doubt that Otis was off; he wasted no time in questioning or upbraiding the boy. Tearing a leaf from his pocket-book, he scrawled a note to Helston, telling him what had happened, and asking him to bring a conveyance of some kind at once, and to send Arnie on for the doctor. Meanwhile Arnie had brought his straw hat full of water, and the moment he received his instructions, set off running fast along the road.
Bert was alone again with the girl.
There was a huge lump rising upon one side of her forehead—he guessed it to be the result of a silencing blow from a brutal fist. Possibly it was merely the effect of her fall to the ground. This it was, he hoped, which was rendering her unconscious. He felt about carefully among the long hair, and could find no trace that a bullet had struck her head, nor was there any mark upon the white silk blouse she wore. He bathed her forehead with her own little handkerchief; he knew where to look for it, in her sleeve; he knew every little habit which was hers. For so long he had been garnering up his deep knowledge of her—for this? It was all to be in vain? The thing was so preposterous that he laughed.
This white brow, over which he passed the cold water, was his treasure-house. That it could be empty was a thing manifestly impossible.