He went. They all went--the cook and the housemaid, the porter, Mr Bryan Dumville, and Miss May Bewicke. She went last. As she went, she shut the front and drawing-room doors behind her. She pointed towards her bedroom.
'They're in there at this moment--three of them.'
The porter seemed to have his doubts.
'Three of them? You're sure they are thieves, miss?'
'Am I sure? Why do you ask me such a question? Do you think I'm likely to make a mistake in a matter like that? Pray, don't be absurd.'
'In that case, if they are thieves, don't you think I'd better fetch the police?'
Miss Bewicke's wits worked quickly. Even when circumstances seemed against their working at all--since instructing the cook and housemaid to do as the porter was now suggesting that he should do--she had already been turning things over in her mind, with the result that she was not sure that she desired official assistance after all. If the police came, arrests would be made; she would have to see the thing through to the bitter end. In view of such a possible consummation, there were many points to be considered. Had she been an actress, with a keen eye for an advertisement--a type which, it is understood, does exist--the idea of figuring as the heroine of what the slang of the hour calls a 'cause célèbre' might have commended itself to her intelligence; but, as it happened, she was not that kind. If these gentlemen did come into the hands of the police--at anyrate, on this particular charge--it was possible that things might transpire which she, and possibly others, would not wish to have mentioned in court and in the papers. That the miscreants deserved all the punishment which the law might award them, she had no doubt whatever. At the same time, she was equally clear that they would duly, and shortly, receive their reward, if not at her instance, then at that of others. So, on the whole, she decided, in a twinkling, that she would take no final step till she saw which way the cat might jump.
'When I want you to fetch the police, I will tell you.' She turned to the housemaid. 'But there's one thing, Stevens, you might fetch, and must, and that's a doctor. Go to the nearest, and bring him at once.'
Even as she spoke, through the dining-room door there came three persons--Miss Broad, with Mr Guy Holland on her arm, looking the most woe-begone figure imaginable, but still alive, and plainly walking; behind them Miss Casata. For the second time Miss Bewicke countermanded her instructions.
'Stay, Stevens! Perhaps the doctor won't be wanted.'