Not at first comprehending exactly what had happened, Thorne rose to his feet, took the revolver from the other’s hand, and stood over the body of his mortally wounded brother, the awful anguish of his heart in his face. Fortunately, they were near the far end of the room, next the wall, and no one could see the look in Thorne’s eyes or the distortion of his features in his horror. “Harry!” he whispered. “My God, you have shot yourself!” But Henry Dumont was past speaking. He simply smiled at his brother, and closed his eyes. The next instant the room was filled with light and sound. From every window and door people poured in; the soldiers from the porches, from the hall, Mrs. Varney, Arrelsford and Edith; from the other side of the hall a hubbub of screams and cries rose from behind the locked door where the sewing women sat. Martha brought up the rear with lights, which Arrelsford took from her and set on the table. The room was again brightly illuminated. As they crowded through the various entrances, their eyes fell upon Thorne. He was leaning nonchalantly against the table, his revolver in his hand, a look of absolute indifference upon his face. His acting was superb had they but known it. He could not betray himself now and make vain his brother’s sublime act of self-sacrifice for the cause. There was a tumult of shouts and sudden cries: “Where is he? What has he done? This way now!” Most of those who entered had eyes only for the man lying upon the floor, blood welling darkly through his grey shirt exposed by the opening of his coat which had been torn apart in the struggle. Three people had eyes only for Thorne, the man who hated him, the girl who loved him, and the woman who suspected him. Between the soldiers and these three stood the Corporal of the Guard, representing as it were, the impartial law. Thorne did not glance once at the girl who loved him, or at the man who hated him, or at the woman who suspected him. He fixed his eyes upon the Corporal of the Guard. “There’s your prisoner, Corporal,” he said calmly, without a break in his voice, although such anguish possessed him as he had never before experienced and lived through, but his control was absolutely perfect. And his quiet words and quiet demeanour increased the hate of one man, and the suspicions of one woman, and the love and admiration of the other. “There’s your prisoner,” he said, slipping his revolver slowly back into its holster. “We had a bit of a struggle and I had to shoot him. Look out for him.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ BOOK III WHAT HAPPENED AT TEN O’CLOCK CHAPTER X CAROLINE MITFORD WRITES A DESPATCH