Who could it be? He
had asked, as a special favor, that he might not be disturbed, and Mr.
Fielding knew how to ask favors of servants. Interruption now meant
disaster, absolute and unqualified--the end, perhaps, of a career in
which he had achieved some success. Big drops of perspiration stood out
upon his forehead, drawn there by the pain and this new fear. Slowly,
and on tiptoe, he drew near the door.
"Who is that?" he asked with wonderful calmness.
"It is I! Let me in," came the swift answer, and Mr. Fielding drew a
little breath of relief. Nevertheless he was angry. He opened the door
and drew the girl in.
"You fool!" he exclaimed. "I sent you out of the way on purpose. Why
have you come back?"
She opened her lips, but no words came. The man on the floor groaned
again. She swayed upon her feet. It was all so horrible.
"Speak, can't you!" he muttered between his teeth. "Things have gone
badly here. I'm wounded, and I'm afraid--I've hurt that chap--pretty
badly."
"I was in the park," she faltered, "and saw them. They are all coming
back."
"Coming back?"
"They are almost here. Sir George Duncombe told me that they could not
shoot because of the wind.
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