The murder of the two Shandons and the attack upon Ernest had left him emotionally untouched to any real extent. The two Shandons had been hard men, from all he knew of them; and the fate which had overtaken them did not seem altogether out of keeping with people of their type. The attempt on Ernest had been unsuccessful and had made little impression on Wendover’s feelings. But this last outrage was in a different category. Even yet he could hardly realise that a deadly effort had been made to injure Sylvia. Sylvia! It was hardly possible for him to feel sure that anyone would attempt to bring down a girl in that terrible fashion. A man, somehow, was different; but he revolted against the idea of cutting short a life like Sylvia’s. The aimlessness of it seemed appalling to his mind; and his anger against the hidden assassin rose to a white heat. He moved forward in the direction from which he supposed the shot had come; but in a few steps he ran right into the belt of rhododendrons which stretched parallel with the house on this front. As he did so, the loud-speaker was suddenly shut off and he halted to listen for sounds of movement. Nothing seemed to be stirring. He circled about the rhododendrons, but found no one there. He retraced his steps towards the window. A single dim light shone at the other end of the winter-garden, but except for it the house-front was dark. The bridge-table showed every detail under the lamps of the room beyond the window—an ideal target for the eye of anyone posted in the darkness. Suddenly Wendover’s eyes were dazzled by a blaze of light as the whole of the winter-garden lamps were switched on. “I say,” demanded a cautious voice, “what does all this mean? What’s all this about, I say? Who are you, out there?” Wendover’s eyes, after an instant or two, grew accustomed to the glare. Looking towards the speaker, he saw Ernest Shandon’s figure at the nearest door of the winter-garden. Ernest evidently meant to run no risks; for he was holding the door almost closed and had taken shelter behind it while he called out his demand for explanations. Wendover’s lips curled contemptuously as he noted the shrinking figure under the lights. “I’m Wendover,” he announced. Ernest opened the door another inch, though with manifest reluctance. “What’s it all about?” he reiterated, with almost pathetic anxiety. “Is there any danger? What are you running around like this for? Where’s Driffield? What’s happened? Can’t you answer, man?” Wendover was still more disgusted by the obvious poltroonery of the man who was, nominally at least, his host. “Miss Hawkhurst has been shot with one of those poisoned darts. Come along and see if there’s anything we can do.” Ernest was quite evidently reduced to the last stage of moral prostration by the news. He had not even sufficient nerve left to cover up his cowardice. “Eh? What’s that? Come out there and be shot at myself? I won’t!”