“Well, stay there, then!” Wendover growled, continuing his way back to the window through which he had come. “I tell you what I’ll do,” he heard Ernest’s voice again. “I’ll go into the house by the other door of the winter-garden and come round to where you are. I’ll be under cover the whole way if I do that.” The sound of the winter-garden door closing and the turning of the key in the lock came to Wendover’s ears as he reopened the window and climbed through, shutting it behind him. Sylvia was still lying on the couch, evidently unconscious. Sir Clinton was beside her and, much to Wendover’s surprise, some lint and bandages had been laid out on the bridge-table which had been pulled across the room. “Miss Forrest,” the Chief Constable said curtly, “will you bring some warm water? Get it yourself. These maids are no use in an emergency. And tell them to get Miss Hawkhurst’s room ready for her—immediately. A hot-water bottle as quick as they can—and some brandy.” Vera was so quick that she had to pause at the door for his last directions. “You Wendover,” went on Sir Clinton, “get Ardsley on the ’phone at once. Tell him I want him here at Whistlefield.” Wendover halted for a moment. “Hadn’t I better tell him what he’s wanted for? He may be able to bring something with him.” “It’s all arranged. Damnation man! _Will_ you hurry up!” Wendover, electrified by the vehemence of the tone, hurried off without a word. When he returned he found that Vera Forrest had carried out her instructions and had come back to see if anything more could be done. Ernest had also found his way into the room and stood staring vacantly at the form of his niece lying so limply on the couch. He was evidently about to open his mouth when Sir Clinton looked up. “Everything all right? Thanks, Miss Forrest. You got Ardsley, Wendover? Good so far, then.” He was busy bathing the wound with warm water as he spoke. “There’s just a chance we may be able to do something,” he explained, going on with his task. “By the merest luck, the dart hit the chain of her watch-bracelet. It got down between the links and made a nasty wound all the same; but it didn’t quite embed itself in the flesh. So there’s just the chance that the dose of poison injected may not reach the fatal amount. I can’t say. Ardsley will know better when he arrives.” He bathed the wound again, then turned to Wendover. “You saw no one?” Wendover shook his head. “It’s practically pitch dark to-night. I could see nothing.” Sir Clinton thought for a moment. “You’ll find a flash-lamp in my overcoat pocket. Get it, Wendover, and hunt round that bank of rhododendrons to see if you can find the air-gun. The brute may have dropped it in the hurry, this time. Don’t mind if you make a mess—the gun’s more important than any tracks you may obscure in your search.” As Wendover moved towards the door, Ernest seemed to come to life.