In
this also he acted mechanically; the red, half-awake eyes had not in
them even then the intention of conscious action. The danger, however,
was averted. The relief of the situation, strangely enough, came in a
simple fashion. Mrs. Grant, seeing that her young mistress had on only
her nightdress, had gone to fetch a dressing-gown, which she now threw
over her. This simple act brought us all back to the region of fact. With a long breath, one and all seemed to devote themselves to the most
pressing matter before us, that of staunching the flow of blood from
the arm of the wounded man. Even as the thought of action came, I
rejoiced; for the bleeding was very proof that Mr. Trelawny still lived. Last night’s lesson was not thrown away. More than one of those
present knew now what to do in such an emergency, and within a few
seconds willing hands were at work on a tourniquet. A man was at once
despatched for the doctor, and several of the servants disappeared to
make themselves respectable. We lifted Mr. Trelawny on to the sofa
where he had lain yesterday; and, having done what we could for him,
turned our attention to the Nurse. In all the turmoil she had not
stirred; she sat there as before, erect and rigid, breathing softly and
naturally and with a placid smile. As it was manifestly of no use to
attempt anything with her till the doctor had come, we began to think
of the general situation. Mrs. Grant had by this time taken her mistress away and changed her
clothes; for she was back presently in a dressing-gown and slippers,
and with the traces of blood removed from her hands. She was now much
calmer, though she trembled sadly; and her face was ghastly white. When she had looked at her father’s wrist, I holding the tourniquet,
she turned her eyes round the room, resting them now and again on each
one of us present in turn, but seeming to find no comfort. It was so
apparent to me that she did not know where to begin or whom to trust
that, to reassure her, I said:

“I am all right now; I was only asleep.”  Her voice had a gulp in it as
she said in a low voice:

“Asleep! You! and my Father in danger! I thought you were on the
watch!”  I felt the sting of justice in the reproach; but I really
wanted to help her, so I answered:

“Only asleep. It is bad enough, I know; but there is something more
than an “only” round us here. Had it not been that I took a definite
precaution I might have been like the Nurse there.”  She turned her
eyes swiftly on the weird figure, sitting grimly upright like a painted
statue; and then her face softened. With the action of habitual
courtesy she said:

“Forgive me! I did not mean to be rude. But I am in such distress and
fear that I hardly know what I am saying. Oh, it is dreadful! I fear
for fresh trouble and horror and mystery every moment.”  This cut me to
the very heart, and out of the heart’s fulness I spoke:

“Don’t give me a thought! I don’t deserve it. I was on guard, and yet
I slept. All that I can say is that I didn’t mean to, and I tried to
avoid it; but it was over me before I knew it. Anyhow, it is done now;
and can’t be undone. Probably some day we may understand it all; but
now let us try to get at some idea of what has happened. Tell me what
you remember!”  The effort to recollect seemed to stimulate her; she
became calmer as she spoke:

“I was asleep, and woke suddenly with the same horrible feeling on me
that Father was in great and immediate danger. I jumped up and ran,
just as I was, into his room. It was nearly pitch dark, but as I
opened the door there was light enough to see Father’s nightdress as he
lay on the floor under the safe, just as on that first awful night. Then I think I must have gone mad for a moment.”  She stopped and
shuddered. My eyes lit on Sergeant Daw, still fiddling in an aimless
way with the revolver. Mindful of my work with the tourniquet, I said
calmly:

“Now tell us, Sergeant Daw, what did you fire at?”  The policeman
seemed to pull himself together with the habit of obedience. Looking
around at the servants remaining in the room, he said with that air of
importance which, I take it, is the regulation attitude of an official
of the law before strangers:

“Don’t you think, sir, that we can allow the servants to go away? We
can then better go into the matter.”  I nodded approval; the servants
took the hint and withdrew, though unwillingly, the last one closing
the door behind him. Then the Detective went on:

“I think I had better tell you my impressions, sir, rather than recount
my actions. That is, so far as I remember them.”  There was a mortified
deference now in his manner, which probably arose from his
consciousness of the awkward position in which he found himself. “I
went to sleep half-dressed—as I am now, with a revolver under my
pillow. It was the last thing I remember thinking of. I do not know
how long I slept. I had turned off the electric light, and it was
quite dark. I thought I heard a scream; but I can’t be sure, for I
felt thick-headed as a man does when he is called too soon after an
extra long stretch of work. Not that such was the case this time. Anyhow my thoughts flew to the pistol. I took it out, and ran on to
the landing. Then I heard a sort of scream, or rather a call for help,
and ran into this room. The room was dark, for the lamp beside the
Nurse was out, and the only light was that from the landing, coming
through the open door. Miss Trelawny was kneeling on the floor beside
her father, and was screaming. I thought I saw something move between
me and the window; so, without thinking, and being half dazed and only
half awake, I shot at it. It moved a little more to the right between
the windows, and I shot again. Then you came up out of the big chair
with all that muffling on your face. It seemed to me, being as I say
half dazed and half awake—I know, sir, you will take this into
account—as if it had been you, being in the same direction as the
thing I had fired at. And so I was about to fire again when you pulled
off the wrap.”  Here I asked him—I was cross-examining now and felt at
home:

“You say you thought I was the thing you fired at. What thing?”  The
man scratched his head, but made no reply. “Come, sir,” I said, “what thing; what was it like?”  The answer came
in a low voice:

“I don’t know, sir. I thought there was something; but what it was, or
what it was like, I haven’t the faintest notion. I suppose it was
because I had been thinking of the pistol before I went to sleep, and
because when I came in here I was half dazed and only half awake—which
I hope you will in future, sir, always remember.”  He clung to that
formula of excuse as though it were his sheet-anchor. I did not want
to antagonise the man; on the contrary I wanted to have him with us. Besides, I had on me at that time myself the shadow of my own default;
so I said as kindly as I knew how:

“Quite right! Sergeant.