"Yes. But what of it?" asked Shirley and Miriam in one breath.
McGrath opened his eyes in mock wonder.
"Why bless me, didn't you know? This here Colonel Hargraves was shot by a bullet that came out of a thirty-eight calibre revolver. That's all. We wanted to be fair."
Shirley rubbed vigorously the hand with which she had touched the gun.
"Fair!" she cried bitterly. "And Mr. Murgatroyd sanctions such methods—will use us for evidence—make a case by us?"
But even then Miriam did not understand. She was watching Mixley, who had returned to Challoner; watching Mixley and McGrath, who were lifting Challoner up and dropping him—watching them draw him up to a standing posture and then throw him back again on the sofa, calling the while:—
"Wake up! Wake up!"
"I've got to sleep," was all they could get out of Challoner.
At last, however, a lift and a drop a trifle more vigorous than the preceding ones caused Challoner to open his eyes and look about him. Then he closed them again.
"Are you James Lawrence Challoner?" asked Mixley loudly, peremptorily.