— XLV —THE MARQUIS AND MARCHIONESS
“You see it was the Chief whom Shon was calling.”
They had removed the Marquis of Skye to the great house in Park Lane. He had insisted; and as, in any case, it was only a question of hours, it had seemed to the doctors that it did not matter. The bullet had not killed on the spot, but it had produced internal haemorrhage, which was beyond the reach of medicine. The marquis was bleeding to death.
It was between two and three o’clock in the morning. Beside the bed were his cousin, whom we have known through the greater part of this story as Francis Smithers, and his wife, Netta. Both looked as if they had been in the wars. Netta, in particular, was disposed towards silence. During the last few hours events had come marching upon her with such breathless
