THE YELLOW DOVE
“Cyril—you’re hurt—and there’s blood on your coat”
“Is there? By Jove, so there is—it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t mind a peg though—and a cigarette.”
Doris had started for the door in alarm.
“Wait!” Hammersley’s voice came sharply. And as she paused, “Ring, Doris.”
She understood and touched the button beside the door.
“We might as well have an understanding before they come, Rizzio,” put in Hammersley quickly. “Do you prefer to believe my story—or would you like to invent one of your own?”
Rizzio shrugged. “As you please,” he said. “It seems that I am de trop here.” At the door he paused and finished distinctly. “I hope that your explanations will prove satisfactory.”
Doris had helped Cyril off with his coat and by the time the maid brought Betty Heathcote, had cut away the sleeve of his shirt with Cyril’s pocket knife. It was merely a gash across the upper arm, which a bandage and some old-fashioned remedies would set right.
Lady Heathcote heard the story (from which Hammersley eliminated the rope) with amazement, and was for sending at once for the local constabulary.
“Oh, it’s hardly worth while,” said the Honorable Cyril, sipping his whiskey and water, comfortably. “Poor devils—out of work, I fancy. Wanted my money. If they’d come to Ben-a-Chielt tomorrow I’d give it to ’em. But I wouldn’t mind, Betty, if you could put me up for the night. I’m not keen to be dodgin’ bullets in the dark.”
“Of course,” said Lady Heathcote. “How extraor-
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