When they reached Whistlefield, Ernest Shandon was the first person who came to meet them. “This is a terrible business!” he lamented, as he came into the study where they were. “It’s a dreadful affair, really. A dreadful affair! Ardsley’s very down about it, very down. You know, he wouldn’t do for a doctor in practice. He’s most unsympathetic. Most doctors are careful: they don’t blurt things out in the callous sort of way that Ardsley does. He doesn’t think about one’s feelings in the slightest. One expects a little decent circumlocution from a doctor; but there’s none of that about him. I asked him this morning if Sylvia had passed a good night; and he just glared at me and snarled that she was lucky to be alive at all; snarled it out as if she had been one of the dogs he cuts up. Is that the way to break bad news to a relation? I call it beastly. He never thinks of what it means to us. It’s just a case to him, I suppose. But look what it means to us. Sylvia runs the house so well. I don’t know what we’ll do without her.” Sir Clinton had let him run on; but quite evidently he had no intention of wasting much time listening to Ernest’s lamentations. “Miss Forrest must be resting just now, I suppose?” “Yes,” Ernest assured him, “she was up helping Ardsley until the nurses came; and after that she didn’t seem able to sleep, so she sat up for a while. Ardsley came down and found her in the early morning, so he sent her off to bed. So he told me. I had gone to bed myself some time before.” Sir Clinton made no comment and Ernest proceeded with his complaints. “What I feel is that the police aren’t doing anything. Why haven’t you arrested somebody? My nerves are beginning to wear thin under this strain, I tell you. Here we have some murderer haunting the neighbourhood. He kills my brothers; he attacks me; he brings my niece to death’s door—and all the time the police look on with their hands in their pockets. What are they paid for? That’s what I ask you. Why don’t they lay hands on the fellow? What sort of a life do you think I’m leading just now? Every time I go outside the house I have the feeling that the scoundrel may be lurking behind the next bush, getting his gun ready. That’s a pretty state of things. And not a finger do you lift to help!” “I offered you a guard of constables for Whistlefield not so long ago, Mr. Shandon. You refused it then. I’m sorry it isn’t available now. I have other work for my men at present.” Ernest was somewhat taken aback by this reminder. “So you did, so you did. I’d forgotten that.” Sir Clinton seemed inclined to accept this as an apology. “I should like to see Mr. Stenness for a moment in private, if you don’t mind, Mr. Shandon. Could you send him to me?” Ernest evidently felt that he had let his tongue run away with him. Possibly some faint realisation of the display of cowardice which he had made was dawning upon his mind. At any rate, he hastened to meet Sir Clinton’s wish.