Poole fired. Ralley gave a cry: staggered, and walked on. He was struck, no doubt, but not killed.
"Your boasted aim has failed, Poole," cried Denton with a savage oath.
Not more savage than Poole's, though, as he broke through the low hedge. What the bullet had not done, the pistol itself should. Suddenly, with a startled cry, Allen broke after him, shouting to him to stay his hand.
"It's the master, Poole; it's not Ralley. Stop, you fool!--it's the master."
Too late. It was, indeed, Richard North. And Mr. Poole had felled him by a wicked blow on the temple.
Mrs. Gass and Mary Dallory were seated at tea in a sad and sorrowful mood--for the conversation had turned on those dreadful rumours that, in spite of Richard North, would not be hushed. Mrs. Gass was stoutly asserting that she had more faith in Dr. Rane than to believe them, when some commotion in the street dawned on their ears. Mrs. Gass stopped in the midst of an emphatic sentence.
"What's that?" she cried.
Fleet steps seemed to be running to and fro; voices were raised in excitement. They distinctly heard the words, "Mr. Richard," "Richard North." Mrs. Gass drew aside her crimson curtains, and opened the window.
"Smith--is it you?" she said, arresting a man who was running in the wake of others. "What's the matter?"
"I don't rightly know, ma'am," he answered. "They are saying that Mr. Richard North has been shot dead."