“He turned mortal ghastly white,” said Abel.

“And then pulled the dart out,” said Parish, “and threw it down on the floor. He shuddered, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Abel. “He shuddered violent.”

“He always turned queer at the sight of his own blood, you know,” said Parish.

“Well, what next?” asked Oates.

“I think he took a step towards the settle,” said Parish.

“He sat on the settle,” said Decima. “Miss Darragh said, ‘He’s feeling faint, give him a sip of brandy.’ Mr. Legge said he looked ill and could he have lockjaw? Someone else, Mr. Pomeroy I think, said he ought to have iodine on his finger. Anyway, Mr. Pomeroy got the first-aid box out of the bottom cupboard. I looked for a glass with brandy in it but they were all empty. I got the bottle. While I was doing that — pouring out the brandy, I mean — Mr. Pomeroy dabbed iodine on the finger. Mr. Watchman clenched his teeth and cried out. He jerked up his arms.”

She stopped and closed her eyes.

Will Pomeroy had come back with a sheet. He spread it over Watchman and then turned to Decima.

“I’ll take you out of this,” he said. “Come upstairs to Mrs. Ives, Dessy.”

“No, I’ll finish.”

“No need.”

Will put his arm across Decima’s shoulder and turned to Oates.

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Parish, here, said Mr. Watchman couldn’t stand the sight of blood. Father said something about iodine like Dessy told you and he got the first-aid box out of the cupboard. He took out the bottle and it was nearly empty. Father tipped it up and poured some on Mr. Watchman’s finger and then got out a bandage. Then Dessy gave him his brandy. He knocked the glass out of her hand.”

“Miss Darragh was just going to tie his finger up,” said Abel, “when lights went out.”

“Went out?”

“ ’Ess. They’d been upping and downing ever since thunder set in and this time they went out proper for about a minute.”

“It was frightful,” said Parish rapidly. “We could hear him breathing. We were all knocking against each other with broken glasses everywhere and — those awful noises. Nobody thought of the oil lamps, but Legge said he’d throw some wood on the fire to make a blaze. He did, and just then the lights went up.”

“Hold hard, if you please, sir,” said Oates. “I’ll get this down in writing.”

“But, look here—”

Parish broke off and Will began again —

“When the lights went on again we all looked at Mr. Watchman. He was in a kind of fit, seemingly. He thrashed about with his arms and legs and then fell backwards on settle where he is now. His breathing came queer for a bit and then — didn’t come at all. I tried to get the doctor but the wires must be down. Then I came out and called you.”

Will turned Decima towards the door.

“If you want me, Father,” he said, “I’ll be up-along. Coming, Dessy?”

“I’m all right,” said Decima.

“You’ll be better out of here.”

She looked at him confusedly, seemed to hesitate, and then turned to Miss Darragh.

“Will you come, too?” asked Decima.

Miss Darragh looked fixedly at her and then seemed to make up her mind.

“Yes, my dear, certainly. We’re better out of the way now, you know.”

Miss Darragh gathered up her writing block and plodded to the door. Decima drew nearer to Will and, obeying the pressure of his hand, went out with him.

Legge walked across and looked down at the shrouded figure.

“My God,” he said, “do you think it was the dart that did it? My God, I’ve never missed before. He moved his finger. I swear he moved his finger. My God, I shouldn’t have taken that brandy!”

“Where is the dart?” asked Oates, still writing.

Legge began hunting about the floor. The broken glass crackled under his boots.

“If it’s all the same to you, Abel,” said Oates suddenly, “I reckon we’d better leave this end of the room till doctor’s come. If it’s all the same to you I reckon we’ll shift into the Public.”

“Let’s do that, for God’s sake,” said Parishi

Mr. Nark was suddenly and violently ill. “That settles it,” said old Abel. “Us’ll move.”

iii

“Steady,” said the doctor. “There’s no particular hurry, you know. It’s no joke negotiating Coombe Tunnel on a night like this. We must be nearly there.”

“Sorry,” said Cubitt. “I can’t get it out of my head you might — might be able to do something.”

“I’m afraid not, from your account. Here’s the tunnel now. I should change down to first, really I should.”

Cubitt changed down.

“I expect you wish you’d driven yourself,” he said grimly.

“If it hadn’t been for that slow puncture — there’s the turning. Can you do it in one in this car? Splendid. I must confess I don’t enjoy driving into the Coombe, even on clear nights. Now the road down. Pretty steep, really, and it’s streaming with surface water. Shameful state of repair. Here we are.”

Cubitt put on his brakes and drew up with a sidelong skid at the front door of the Feathers. The doctor got out, reached inside for his bag, and ducked through the rain into the entry. Cubitt followed him.

“In the private bar, you said?” asked Dr. Shaw.

He pushed open the door and they walked in.

The private bar was deserted but the lights were up in the Public beyond and they heard a murmur of voices.

“Hullo!” called Dr. Shaw.

There was a scuffling of feet and Will Pomeroy appeared on the far side of the bar.

“Here’s doctor,” said Will over his shoulder.

“Just a minute, Will,” said the voice of Mr. Oates. “I’ll trouble you stay where you are, if you please, gentlemen.”

He loomed up, massively, put Will aside, and reached Dr. Shaw by way of the tap-proper, ducking under both counters.

“Well, Oates,” said Dr. Shaw, “what’s the trouble?”

Cubitt, stranded inside the door, stayed where he was. Oates pointed to the settle. Dr. Shaw took off his hat and coat, laid them with his bag on a table, and then moved to the shrouded figure. He drew back the sheet and after a moment’s pause, stooped over Watchman.

Cubitt turned away. There was a long silence.

At last Dr. Shaw straightened up and replaced the sheet.

“Well,” he said, “let’s have the whole story again. I’ve had it once from Mr. Cubitt but he says he was a bit confused. Where are the others?”

“In here, Doctor,” said Abel Pomeroy. “Will you come through?”

Oates and Will held up the counter-flap and Dr. Shaw went into the public bar. Parish, Mr. Nark and Abel had got to their feet.

Dr. Shaw was not the tallest man there but he dominated the scene. He was pale and baldish and wore glasses. His intelligence appeared in his eyes, which were extremely bright and a vivid blue. His lower lip protruded. He had an unexpectedly deep voice, a look of serio-comic solemnity, and a certain air of distinction. He looked directly and with an air of thoughtfulness at each of the men before him.

“His relations must be told,” he said.

Parish moved forward. “I’m his cousin,” he said, “and his nearest relation.”

“Oh yes,” said Dr. Shaw. “You’re Mr. Parish?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Sad business, this.”

“What was it?” asked Parish. “What happened? He was perfectly well. Why did he — I don’t understand.”

“Tell me this,” said Dr. Shaw. “Did your cousin become unwell as soon as he received this injury from the dart?”

“Yes. At least he seemed to turn rather faint. I didn’t think much of it because he’s always gone like that at the sight of his own blood.”

“Like what? Can you describe his appearance?”

“Well, he — Oh God, what did he do, Norman?”

Cubitt said: “He just said ‘Got me’ when the dart struck and then afterwards pulled it out and threw it down. He turned terribly pale. I think he sort of collapsed on that seat.”

“I’ve seen a man with tetanus,” said Legge suddenly. “He looked just the same. For God’s sake, Doctor, d’you think he could have taken tetanus from that dart?”