Dick flew forward to the prostrate figure, and, kneeling by his side, turned him on his back. His eyelids were working spasmodically, but there was no sign of injury, except a bruise on the side of his face which had been caused by his coming violently into contact with the ground. And then Dick saw the man’s right boot. The sole had been ripped off and there was a patch of blood showing on the toe of the sock. At the sound of a rustling skirt Dick turned his head. The girl was coming toward them.
“Go back behind that tree and don’t move,” he shouted authoritatively, but for once she did not obey him.
She was rather pale, but there was no other evidence of fear, as she knelt by his side and began to unfasten the collar of the stricken man.
“He’s stunned. I don’t think it’s anything worse than that,” said Dick. “I thought at first he was finished--look at his boot!”
He was pulling it off gingerly and the operation must have hurt a little, because the detective winced and opened his eyes.
“Hullo! What has happened?” he asked, looking round. “Did that bird shoot me?”
“I don’t think he’s hurt you very much.” Dick was looking at the foot. The bullet had ricochetted, cutting a shallow gash on the man’s instep, but there was no other injury.
“Do you feel fit enough to look after Miss Gwyn?” said Dick.
The detective reached round for the gun he had dropped and humped himself to his feet. Without another word, Dick raced across the grass-land to the bushes, and the girl watched him in terror, expecting every second to hear the fourth and the fatal shot.
After five minutes he emerged from the bushes, holding something in his hand which he was examining curiously as he walked toward them.
“A Lee-Enfield rifle, army pattern,” he said. “I found these shells.”
He put them into the detective’s hand. Puttler examined the exploded cartridges carefully.
“You didn’t see him, of course?” he said.
“No, I think he must have got round to the back of the house. The bushes ran practically from the west wing of Fossaway Manor to the end of the Mound. He might of course be still hidden in the bushes, but the probability is that he made his getaway as soon as he saw you fall,” said Dick. “I think we’d better go inside and I will find you a pair of shoes, unless you have a spare supply.”
They were halfway to the house when they met Lord Chelford.
“Who was that shooting?” he asked irritably. “Dick, I told you that I did not want rabbit shooting or any other kind of shooting within half a mile of the house. It gets on my nerves terribly. Really, I think you must show a little more consideration.”
The girl had opened her lips to explain when Dick caught her eye, and with splendid mendacity she invented a hurried but effective excuse.
“My fault, Harry. I saw a stoat, and I hate stoats.”
The fact that none of them carried a rifle was unnoticed by Harry.
“Well, of course…” He was obviously taken back by her championship. “If that’s the case it can’t be helped. Only in future, Dick, old boy…”
He walked rapidly back to the house.
“Why shouldn’t he be told?” asked Leslie. Then, realizing the foolishness of the question, she was all penitence. “There is no reason why he should be, of course. I was silly to suggest it. But, Dick, who did such a terrible thing? It couldn’t have been an accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident: of that I can assure you,” said Mr. Puttler, nursing his injury. “The first two shots that were fired hit the tree within three inches of each other. Are you going to notify the local police, Mr. Alford?”
Dick thought for a moment, then decided against that course, and to Leslie’s surprise the detective approved.
“I think you’re right,” said Puttler. “Where is the nearest rifle range?”
“About fifteen miles away,” said Dick sardonically. “You needn’t follow that line of thought.”
“I’m not following any line of thought,” said the detective. “I’m only foreseeing possible alibis. I spend my life standing in front of alibis and waving a red flag.”
Through the tan, Dick’s face was gray. He seemed suddenly to have gone old, and Leslie looked at him anxiously.
“Dick, at whom were they shooting?”
“I don’t know that they were shooting at anybody,” he said wearily. “They just loosed off a few rounds to scare us.”
And then he laughed; it was a fierce, hard little laugh, and she winced at the sound of it.
“I am thinking of Harry and his nerves, and the stoat and every damned ridiculous---- I beg your pardon, Leslie; I’m afraid I’m getting rattled.”
She smiled at this.
“Dick, will you say good-bye to Harry for me? I promised my brother I would come home early. No, really, you need not take me. I’m not at all afraid of being held up by armed desperadoes!”
“Neither am I,” said Dick, “but I don’t fancy you overmuch as a driver.”
And in her annoyance at this false accusation she forgot to resist his escort.
By the time he had returned to the house, Puttler had secured a dressing for his foot. The injury was so slight that he could resume his shoes, and pooh-poohed the suggestion that he had better lie up that night.
“It was a narrow escape,” he said, “but I’m rather glad I got that bullet, and that it didn’t go where it was intended.”
Dick looked at him steadily.
“For whom was it intended?” he asked.
Without hesitation came the reply:
“For Miss Leslie Gwyn: I thought you knew that.”
Dick could find no answer, but in his heart of hearts he knew that Puttler was speaking the truth.
