I pointed to the side of the grounds where Moore was lying.
“Over there,” I said, “not far from the—the door in the wall. It is locked, and we were trying to climb over.”
As I said this, the prelude to the inevitable confession, the misery and shame of the whole position almost overwhelmed me, in spite of my increasing anxiety about Moore’s injuries. It was with great difficulty that I suppressed a sob.
The last speaker, less startled and bewildered than the hermit-like owner of the place, was naturally quicker to realise what I was feeling, and I think he heard the catch in my voice, and was sorry for me. He turned to the other.
“I will hurry on with this young lady, Mr Grey,” he said, “and see what can be done. Perhaps you—”
“Yes, yes,” our host interrupted. “I’ll—I had better—the others might be startled, and—” I fancied I heard him mutter something about “the servants.”
“I will follow you immediately,” he went on, and as he spoke he dived back into the dim recesses of the gloomy hall and disappeared.
We—the younger man and I—hurried out. As we went, I felt that, however badly hurt my brother was, I must say something. So I began—
“I—I am so terribly ashamed,” I said. “We had no right to come into the grounds at all. We are well punished. I—you see I got frightened about Moore, my brother, and I followed him in, and then—the door had been locked in the meantime, and—we thought we could climb over.”
My companion assuredly was very quick of apprehension. He glanced at me, and I could feel that his eyes were kind, dark as it was.