“Get out your revolver,” ordered the colonel; “look sharp! there may be some one here.”
But there was not a sign of life revealed by the search. Meanwhile, Winter was examining the body. His first thought was that Keatcham had tried to escape and had been struck down in his flight. Kito would not scruple at such a deed; nor for that matter, Mercer. But why leave the man thus? Why not dispose of the body—unless, indeed, the assassins had been interrupted. Anyhow, what a horrid mess this murder would make of the affair! and how was he to keep the women out of it! All at once, in the examination which he had been making (while a dozen gruesome possibilities tumbled over one another in his mind) he stopped; he put his ear to the man’s heart.
“Isn’t he dead?” asked Tracy under his breath.
“No, he is not dead, but I’m afraid he’ll never find it out,” returned the colonel, shrugging his shoulders. “However, any brandy handy? And get me some water.”
“I know where there is some brandy—I’ll get it; there is some water in the fountain right—Cary!”
“What’s the matter?” demanded Cary Mercer in one of the arcade doorways of the patio. “What’s happened? The devil! Who did this?” He strode up to the kneeling soldier.
“You are in a position to know much better than I,” said the colonel dryly. “We came this moment; we found this.”
“Cary, did you do it?”—the young man laid his hand on Cary’s shoulder; his face was ashy but his voice rang full and clear. “If you did, I am sure you had a reason; but I want to know; we’re partners in this thing to the finish.”
“Thank you, boy,” said Cary gently, “that’s good to hear. But I didn’t hurt him, Endy. Why should I? We’d got what we wanted.”
“Who did?” asked the colonel.