The door opened and Dr. Wells entered. They rushed at him, all speaking at once.

“How is she?” Howard asked.

“Is she alive?” Corinne quavered.

“Is she dead?” her mother demanded.

“There, there, good people; one at a time. Yes. One at a time.”

“Don’t hum and haw!” Mrs. Witherby shrieked at him.

“Is the wound fatal?” Howard asked, more definitely this time.

“Fatal? Oh dear me, no. Oh no, certainly not. Only a flesh-wound. A mere trifle.”

“A trifle?” Mrs. Witherby could not believe her ears.

“How did it happen?” Howard was trying to hasten the explanation by keeping rigidly to the point.

“Well—er—as nearly as I can make out—er—the constable—yes, it was the constable—mistook Mr.—er—the man for a tramp, and immediately fired.”

“And nearly killed Mrs. Mearely?” Corinne’s impatience broke bounds. “Eh? What?” The doctor had removed his horn-rimmed glasses and was polishing them.

Howard, with a supreme effort, mastered his irritation.

“The bullet struck my cousin?—how?”

“Oh, dear me, no. Oh dear, no.” He breathed on the lenses and rubbed them back and forth through a silk handkerchief. “Ah, I see. You also are under the impression that Mrs. Mearely is the invalid.”

“Is she all right?” Corinne shook his arm.

“Oh quite, quite. Never better in her life, the sweet lady. Quite so. But—er—Mr.—er—Mills. Yes; Mills. Mr. Mills....”

“Who is Mr. Mills?” Mrs. Witherby almost screamed the question, in her unendurable exasperation.

“Oh, Mr. Mills is—er—well, I fear I can’t tell you who he is, because I don’t know. But his name is Mills—with two l’s. Perhaps you know him? He was travelling along the road, and a constable, mistaking him for a tramp, shot at him—er—just outside Mrs. Mearely’s house. She, with great courage, ran out to see what had happened—er—had the wounded gentleman brought in here and telephoned at once for me.”

Mrs. Witherby, so far from being relieved, was indignant. “But Mrs. Wells said,” she began accusingly....

“Yes, yes, I know. Dyspepsia. So we thought—until I arrived. But I must hasten. I left Mrs. Wells feeling quite an invalid. Heartburn. Fortunately, we have a perfect cure for it. Our cousin, Dr. Mayhew Pipp’s, remedy. You know, the poor fellow discovered an infallible cure a few years before he died of the disease. Very sad. No doubt he would have been knighted, had he lived. We feel very secure as long as we have cousin Mayhew Pipp’s May-Piplets.”

He swallowed a small pink pellet from a phial, snapped his bag to, and hurried out, saying “good-night” over his shoulder.

The three, looking blankly at one another, heard the trap drive away. Mrs. Witherby dropped into the big chair.

“Well! of all things!” she said. “What time is it?”

“I’m so relieved and happy I could shout!” Corinne exclaimed, laughing and crying a little at the same time.

“Yes, indeed,” Howard agreed; “I cannot be thankful enough for poor Rosamond’s safety.”

Mrs. Witherby gave him an acid look, and sniffed.

“Yes! I dare say your gratitude is deep, Mr. Howard. As for me, I don’t appreciate being dragged out of bed at three in the morning, and frightened out of my senses, for any Mr. Mills I never saw in all my life.”

“I’m sure the realization of your purely disinterested intention must compensate for the loss of your beauty-sleep, Mrs. Witherby.” His manner was courteous, even courtly; yet, in some subtle way, he succeeded in implying that she was a meddler. She bristled.

“As I am not a relative of Mrs. Mearely’s, I think my disinterestedness may be taken for granted, Mr. Howard. The sad occasion would not have benefited me.”

Corinne, anxious to ward off strife, said hastily:

“Hadn’t we better go, mamma? Mrs. Mearely won’t need you to take charge of things now.”

This fact, alas, was not soothing to a lady with Mrs. Witherby’s passion for taking charge of things. She snapped:

“I know that without your telling me. Where on earth did you learn to be such a busybody? Of course, now I’m here, I shall wait to see Mrs. Mearely.”

There was a short, uncomfortable silence, while she twisted about and tossed her head, smiled disagreeably and very knowingly, and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. Her motions presently focussed the gaze of the other two upon her with a sort of fascination. She turned, sharply, on Howard: “Mr. Howard, do you believe that story about the constable?”

“Believe it?” in surprise. “Certainly—er—why not?”

“Does it explain the empty pistol I found on the table?”

He considered briefly.

“No—o. But very possibly it needs no explanation. Rosamond may have drawn the charges herself.”

“Oh, mamma, please don’t invent any more horrors to-night. I—I—just can’t stand it.” Corinne’s voice indicated that she had borne too much. She was smothering an hysterical desire to cry.

“Corinne!” angrily.

“First, Mrs. Mearely had a terrible fright; then she had ptomaine poisoning; next she had been nearly murdered; and the last thing was she had shot herself!”

“Well! everything pointed....” her mother commenced, indignantly.

Corinne’s last vestige of control flew from her. She waved her hands about, in a very fair imitation of her mother’s favourite emotional gesticulations, and cried:

“No, it didn’t! it didn’t! But when you don’t know anything, you always have to make up things. And half the time you’re all wrong. I wish you’d come home now. Next, you’ll be saying she shot him!”

“Ah ha!” Mrs. Witherby was triumphant. “It does look like it, doesn’t it? And I intend to remain here until I find out why she shot him—this Mr. Mills.”

Corinne gave a little moan and burst into tears. Howard rose abruptly and went to the verandah. He almost collided with Constable Marks, who pushed him aside and marched indoors.

“Here! What are you doing?” Howard asked the intruder, severely, and gripped him by the coat.

“’Ands orf!” Mr. Marks exhibited his badge “Horfcer of the law.”

“What is your business here?”

“Hi came about the shoofer as was shot.”

“How do you know the man was shot?” Mrs. Witherby wanted to know.

Constable Marks looked at her, as a brilliant intellect may regard a sample of crass stupidity.

“Who’d know better, Hi’d like to know, than me wot shot ’im? But Hi didn’t get ’is nyme.”

“His name is Mills,” Howard supplied.

Mr. Marks brought out his tablet, wetted his purple pencil, and wrote the name as he conceived it.

“Mills—with two hells?”

“Two hells—I mean, l’s! l’s!” Mrs. Witherby was out of patience. “How else on earth would you spell it?”

Howard, with an authoritative gesture, restrained her.

“Two l’s. I can’t tell you anything more about him. He is a complete stranger to Mrs. Mearely and to all of us. I must say, officer, that you have made a lot of trouble for Mrs. Mearely and all of us, by your reckless shooting—firing at a gentleman, who was riding peaceably along the road!”

Mr. Marks looked up from his note book and stared at Howard in stupefaction.

“Wot d’yer say? Gentleman ridin’ peaceable halong the road. Hi likes to know hif you calls that peaceable—a-jumpin’ on my ’ead.”

“Jumping on? What do you mean?”

“Hi mean jumpin’ hon my ’ead—that’s wot Hi mean. Dived hoff the porch railin’ right on to my ’ead! at two-forty-five in the mornin’, too. No wonder Hi takes ’im for a ‘ousebreaker.”

Mrs. Witherby’s eyes glittered. She closed in and plucked him by the sleeve.

“Jumped off the railing, you say? What railing?”

He withdrew the raiment of the law from her desecrating touch, and replied, witheringly.

“That railin’. Hi don’t see no hother—hunless you think Hi means the pearl an’ goldin’ railin’s of ’eaven!—w’ich Hi don’t! The lady comes runnin’ hout, an’ we brings ’im in ’ere. An’ ’e turns hout to be the shoofer wot’s jest got ’ome, an’ was ’avin’ ’is bite.”

He jerked his thumb toward the supper-tray.

“Chauffeur,” Howard repeated. “What made you think he was the chauffeur?”

“Say! Hi’m gettin’ provoked with you! ’Ow do Hi know ’e’s the shoofer? Cos ’e says so! An’ she says so! An’ Hi makes my excuses an’ takes ’er nyme but forgets to take ’is nyme. An’ that’s w’y the chief sends me back ’ere—if you wants to know. Hit’s always reg’lar to get the nyme of a shot party. Tain’t hoften Hi shoots a man. W’en Hi do, they likes to ’ave ’is hidentity.” He touched his hat. “Halfred Marks is my hidentity.”

“But Mrs. Mearely hasn’t any chauffeur. What else...?”

Howard stopped her firmly.

“Mrs. Witherby, this is not the time for—that is to say, the constable has made a stupid mistake. Er—constable, you have made an error. The man’s name is Mills, and he is an entire stranger to all of us. You will please report that to your chief.”

Mr. Marks set his jaw obstinately.

“Jest as you say. But w’en hentire strangers takes to divin’ hoff porch railin’s—at that time o’ night!—hall Hi feel Hi can say his: hit may be the carefree, heasy manners of the rich, but it hain’t pretty be’aviour!” Howard guided him out, with slight but positive shoves.

“That will do, officer. I’ve given you the facts. Make your report in accordance with them.”

“Hall right, sir,” offendedly. On the porch he paused to find out the hour. Ere replacing the watch in his pocket he waved it on its cherry loop before Howard’s eyes.

“Hi see you’re hadmirin’ o’ this,” he began.

“Not at all,” curtly. Howard turned his back. Constable Marks gave every sign of a sensitive man under acute insult.

“Ho, very well!” he said at last, with great dignity, not unmixed with contempt. “There’s some as will be ’aughty to their gryve.” With this crushing rebuke he withdrew.