"We'll take him to his house," declared Entwistle. "I don't think the injuries are dangerous, although they are bad enough. The correct course would be to run him into Barborough and put him in the infirmary, but I have good reasons for the steps I propose taking. Excellent, Barcroft," he exclaimed when the gate was forthcoming. "Now, together, lift."
"What happened, pater?" asked Billy during the journey down the hillside.
"Hanged if I know exactly," replied Barcroft Senior. "I was ahead of him when it happened. Heard a fearful bang, turned round and found Norton on the ground."
"Frozen snow in the barrel, most likely," remarked Entwistle. "I've known guns to burst before to-day through that reason."
"He did slip when we crossed the stile," admitted Peter, "and plenty of snow had drifted down there. But that theory won't hold. He fired his gun after that."
"He may have fallen down again, or unknowingly poked the muzzle into another lot of snow," suggested Entwistle. "There was a good depth under the lee of those bushes, you'll remember, and I noticed by the footprints that he had walked through the drift."
"It's awfully unfortunate," declared Peter.
"Awfully—for the spy," thought Entwistle, "otherwise you might be taking his place on this improvised stretcher."
The wounded man was taken to The Croft and put to bed. Two doctors, summoned by telephone, were quickly in attendance.
"He'll pull through," was the verdict, "unless complications ensue. Shock to the system is more to be guarded against than the actual injuries. Some one will have to be constantly with him, particularly to see that an even temperature of the room is maintained."
"I'll stay," volunteered Entwistle.
"We'll take turns," suggested Peter. "I'll relieve you at two o'clock. Lunch will be ready for you then. If we cannot get a trained nurse (there is a dearth of them in Barborough, I understand) I'll be with him to-night. Come on, boys; we'll get back to Ladybird Fold."
During the meal Barcroft Senior spoke hardly a word. His appetite was poor. He was not used to scenes of physical violence. Even the unexpected arrival of Billy and the A.P. did little to help him to regain his normal spirits.
Lunch over, Peter left the two chums to their own devices and wended his way to The Croft.
He encountered Entwistle on the landing.
"Well?" he asked.
"He's just recovered consciousness," reported Philip. "A little light-headed, perhaps, and temperature up a bit. I'll come again at four. If you don't mind I'll arrange to stop here to-night."
"You're awfully good," said Peter, who had perhaps unconsciously taken upon himself the duties of deputy master of The Croft. "Well, lunch is awaiting you. Make yourself at home at my place. If there's anything you require don't hesitate to ask for it."
Entwistle had undertaken his self-imposed duties as sick-bed attendant with conscientious zeal; but he had also found time to make a complete investigation of the spy's papers, securing several that promised to become incriminating documents when subjected to professional scrutiny. At any rate, if he could be undisturbed he anticipated an interesting afternoon's search.
"I'll tell Barcroft all about it when I have completed the chain of evidence," he reflected. "He'll have a nasty shock, poor fellow, when he learns that his so-called pal tried to murder him. The whole thing's as plain as daylight to me; von Eitelwurmer meant to shoot him in the back, only the bursting of his gun saved Barcroft."
Left in charge of his treacherous friend, Barcroft found the patient had fallen asleep. Since nothing more was to be done Barcroft Senior took up a book, at the same time sighing for a pipe, a luxury that out of praiseworthy consideration for the injured man he had temporarily abandoned.
"By Jove!" said Peter to himself about an hour later. "That fire's getting low."
As silently as possible he heaped more coal upon the smouldering embers. Tending fires was not in his line. Often at home he would allow the study fire to die out simply through neglect to make use of the poker.
Somewhat anxiously he watched the gradually dimming glow. He was half-minded to ring for Mrs. Crumpet, until reflecting that the housekeeper at The Croft was evidently a person who made more noise in proportion to the work done than was desirable in the circumstances, he decided to tackle the recalcitrant fire himself.
Vainly he looked for a pair of bellows. Foiled in that direction he suddenly remembered having seen a smouldering fire roused into activity by means of a newspaper held over the grate.
"This might do," he soliloquised, picking up a couple of sheets of printed paper, since no newspaper could be found. "A catalogue of sorts: wonder if Norton wants it particularly?"
Slowly, very slowly, the dying fire began to revive, until under the forced draught a respectable flame rewarded Peter's efforts. Patiently holding the printed sheets across the grate until his arm ached, he whiled away the time by reading the technical description of Someone's patent combined washtub-and-dryer.
Suddenly his interest was aroused.
"Bless my soul!" he ejaculated. "That's funny. It wasn't there half a minute ago."
Under the heat of the now glowing fire letters hitherto invisible took semblance upon the warm paper. To his utter surprise the name "Barcroft" appeared in view.
Hardly able to credit his senses Peter read the damning evidence of the supposed Andrew Norton's treachery. It was written in German, for, owing to Entwistle having on a previous visit taken possession of the cypher (a circumstance that had caused the spy hours of uneasiness until he had been lulled into a sense of false security), he had been obliged to resort to ordinary writing pending the arrival of another code-book.
"Your request for immediate action noted," read Peter. "Expect Barcroft's removal to-day. Notifying impending accident to substantiate claim. Also hope to secure his manuscript to-night. Will destroy it if unable to retain without exciting suspicion."
There were also statistical particulars of the output of one of the Barborough munition factories, including the number of new gigantic shells, but Peter had not time to read that far.
A reverberating report filled the room. A bullet, whizzing close to the head of the startled man, shattered into a thousand pieces a mirror on the wall.
The spy, awaking from his sleep, had seen Barcroft poring over his secret—the same paper that he had been compelled to take hurriedly to his room that very morning when Peter disturbed him at his work.
Von Eitelwurmer realised that the game was up. Visions of a firing party in the moat of The Tower gripped his mind. Anything but that: he would make Barcroft pay for his discovery, and afterwards send a shot through his own head.
Under his pillow the spy habitually kept a Service revolver. This he fumbled for with his partly crippled right hand, and taking aim fired at Peter's head.
In his weak state von Eitelwurmer had not taken into sufficient consideration the "kick" of the powerful weapon. At the first shot the revolver jerked itself from his feeble grasp and clattered upon the floor.
"Thank you," said Peter firmly, as he stooped to pick up the weapon. He was surprised at his own almost unnatural calmness. "Might I ask the reason for this—er—outrage?"
"You have discovered everything," muttered the spy. "That was sufficient reason."
"Accidentally," added Barcroft. "Even then why should you seek my life and, what is almost as important to me, to destroy my labour—my writings? Look here, Norton, the position is this. You are a spy, caught redhanded, and the penalty is, as you know, death."
"And I meant to settle you before that," hissed the recreant.
"But Providence decided otherwise," continued Peter. "I thought you a totally different kind of person. You partook of my hospitality, yet descend to attempted assassination. Yet I do not forget that yesterday you saved my life. I wonder why? However, we are now quits, but I feel inclined to do you a favour. In ordinary circumstances you would be nursed back to health merely for the purpose of undergoing trial and suffering execution. There is yet another way."