Could she? And how the terms of his distrust had changed! He had fought against an answer in the affirmative this morning; now his heart was begging for it; he was cold with fear lest she wasn’t this conspirator’s confederate.
“Send for them both,” said he with no sign of emotion.
“I’ll call up Aunt Rebecca,” said Mercer. “Isn’t he reviving? No? Best not move him till we get the wound dressed, don’t you reckon, Colonel?”
But the colonel was already making a rough tourniquet out of his handkerchief and a pencil to stanch the bleeding. The others obeyed his curt directions; and it was not until the still unconscious man was disposed in a more comfortable posture on the cushions which Tracy brought, that Winter sent the latter to the telephone; and then he addressed Mercer. He took a sealed package from an inner pocket and tendered it, saying: “You know who sent it. Whatever happens, you’re a Southern gentleman, and I look to you to see that she—they are kept out of this nasty mess—absolutely.”
“Of course,” returned Mercer, with a trace of irritation; “what do you take me for? Now, hadn’t I better call Janet?”
“But if this were to be discovered—”
“She wouldn’t have done anything; she is only nursing a wounded man whom she doesn’t know, at my request.”
“Very well,” acquiesced the colonel, with a long sigh as he turned away.
He sat down, cross-legged, like a Turk, on the flags beside the wounded man. Mercer was standing a little way off. It was to be observed that he had not touched Keatcham, nor even approached him close enough to reach him by an outstretched hand. Winter studied his face, his attitude—and suppressed the slightest of starts; Mercer had turned his arm to light another electric bulb and the action revealed some crimson spots on his cuff and a smear on his light trousers above the knee. The lamp was rather high and he was obliged to raise his arm, thus lifting the skirts of his coat which had previously hidden the stain. He did not seem aware that his action had made any disclosure. He was busy with the light. “That’ll be better,” said he; “I’ll go call up Sister Janet.”
How had those stains come? Mercer professed just to have entered. Vainly Winter’s brain tried to labor through the crazy bewilderment of it all; Mercer spoke like an honest man—but look at his cuffs! How could any outside assassin enter that locked and guarded house?—yet, if Mercer had not lied, some one must have stolen in and struck Keatcham. Kito? But the Jap was out of the house—perhaps! And Janet Smith, what was she doing talking to Atkins? Had she given that reptile any clue? Could he—but it was his opportunity to rescue Keatcham, not to murder him—what a confounded maze!