“Think it over, squire. If that doesn't do the trick, then think again. And if that fails, shake the bottle and try a third dose. It's one of these obvious points which I'd hate to lay before you, because you'd be covered with confusion at once if I explained it. But remember one thing. Even if the inspector's case breaks down in one detail, still, the facts need a lot more explanation than the Fleetwoods have condescended to offer up to the present. That's obvious. And now, what about picking up a couple of men and making up a table of bridge?” Wendover's play that evening was not up to its usual standard. At the back of his mind throughout there was the picture of Cressida and her husband upstairs, weighed down by the burden of the unformulated charge against them and preparing as best they could against the renewal of the inquisition which could not be long delayed. He could picture to himself the almost incessant examination and re-examination of the evidence which they must be making; the attempts to slur over points which would tell heavily against them; the dread of the coming ordeal at the hands of Armadale; and the terror of some masked battery which might suddenly sweep their whole defence away. He grew more and more determined to put a spoke in the inspector's wheel if it were at all possible. Late in the evening he was aroused to fresh fears by the entry of a page-boy. “Number eighty-nine! Number eighty-nine! Number——” “Here, boy!” Sir Clinton signalled to the page. “What is it?” “You Sir Clinton Driffield, sir? Message from Mr. Cargill, sir. He wants you to go up and see him. His number's 103, sir.” Sir Clinton was obviously annoyed. “Tell him I'm here if he wishes to see me. Say I'm playing bridge.” The boy seemed to enjoy springing a sensation on them. “Beg y'r pardon, sir, but he can't come. He's upstairs in bed. He's been shot. Mrs. Fleetwood brought him back in her car, sir, a few minutes ago; and they had to carry him up to his room. The doctor's been sent for.” Sir Clinton laid down his cards, and made a brief apology to the others for interrupting the game. “You'd better come along with me, squire. We have to break up the table, in any case.” Followed by Wendover, he ascended to the Australian's room. They found Cargill lying on his bed with some rough bandages round his ankle, and evidently in considerable pain. “Sorry to hear you've had an accident,” Sir Clinton said sympathetically, as he bent down and inspected the dressings. “That seems good enough to serve until the doctor comes. Who put it on for you?” “Mrs. Fleetwood,” Cargill answered. “She seemed to know a bit about first aid work.” Sir Clinton, rather to Wendover's surprise, asked no leading question, but awaited Cargill's explanation. The Australian did not keep them in suspense.