Even when he abandoned his fruitless inquisition and went to bed, Wendover was unable to free himself from the latest tragedy. His mind insisted on conjuring up pictures: some of them memories, others imaginary scenes in which the unknown murderer played his part. He saw the bridge-table at the end of the rubber, with the cards of the last trick lying still ungathered, Sir Clinton putting down the marker, a cigarette smouldering on the ash-tray, Vera Forrest shuffling the pack for the next deal. Nothing could have been more peaceful. Then, in a flash, came the transformation scene. He lived again through the nightmare moment when the lethal dart sped in upon them from the outer dark, changing their fancied security into a thing of horror and peril. And from this his imagination passed to that lurking monster in the gloom beyond the window: a vague, featureless figure, crouching among the rhododendrons, lifting the thin barrel of the air-gun in search of the appointed victim. In uneasy visions such as these, his night dragged slowly on. Morning brought Wendover no release from his anxiety. Before he had come downstairs, Sir Clinton had been busy with the telephone; and his face was sufficient to show that he had had bad news. Wendover hardly dared to ask what it was; for his guest’s features plainly betrayed that the worst might be expected. “Ardsley’s been telephoning,” Sir Clinton explained briefly. “She’s much worse. There was a bad collapse in the early morning and they just managed to pull her through. Luckily the nurses were on the spot, so everything was done that could be done. But Ardsley seems to have very little hope now. He thinks the dose of the poison must have been bigger than we thought.” He bit his lip, seemed on the verge of saying something else, then ended by changing his mind and choosing other words: “We must go across there after breakfast, Squire, I must see Ardsley. You’ve no idea how this affair worries me.” “I think I have a fair notion,” Wendover replied. “I’ve had a pretty bad night over it myself. It’s a damnable affair.” Sir Clinton nodded absent-mindedly. He was evidently lost in his thoughts. By the set of his mouth, Wendover could guess that they were anything but pleasant. Though he hardly admitted it to himself, Sir Clinton’s behaviour was another factor which had loosened Wendover’s grip on the normal world. Hitherto the Chief Constable had seemed so sure of his case that he had treated it almost lightly; but now it was self-evident that something had gone wrong. Things had not worked out according to plan. The tragedy which he had predicted had forced itself into being; but now that it had come he appeared unable to act the part of the _deus ex machina_ which he seemed to have meant to play. This sudden change disturbed Wendover deeply. The man on whom he had been relying to clear up the mystery appeared to be perplexed and anxious instead of cool and resolute.