had finished. Blood was streaming from a cut over one eye, and his nose felt as if it were broken. But the man on the ground, propped on one elbow and snarling like a mad dog, had had enough.
"Now will you discuss it?" muttered Somerset.
Caterham didn't answer. With murder in his eyes, he scrambled to his feet and lurched through a group of terrified boys into the house. And suddenly the woman gave a scream.
"Jack! He's getting a rifle."
Then things moved. Somerset's car was by the door, and in an instant he had bundled her into the dickey.
"Lie on the floor, Ruth," he shouted, "and shut the top."
The engine started and he was away down the so-called drive, bumping and rocking from side to side. A bullet spat through the hood close to his head, followed by another. And then they were out on the open track and clear of the house. Not quite the film hero stuff, perhaps, but when a man who is temporarily mad with rage is looking at you from the wrong end of a gun and you have no weapon yourself, it is well not to stand on the order of your going.
Jack Somerset covered ten miles before he stopped, and the girl, white and shaken, got in beside him. Just behind her head was one of the bullet holes; putting her in the dickey had saved her life. But he said nothing, and with his arm round her shoulders they drove on.
"I want you to stay with Mrs. Sidmouth tonight, darling," he said after a while. "Say what you like to her, but, of course, this affair is bound to come out. The boys will talk. And then tomorrow we'll discuss things, when he's cooled down a bit."
"Where are you going, Jack?"
"I'll stop at the pub."
"Darling, I'm frightened. He'll be crazy tonight, and if he starts drinking..."
"Don't worry, my sweet. I'll see that you're O.K."
"I wasn't thinking of myself," she cried.
Jack Somerset laughed shortly.
"Dear heart—I'll have a gun of my own, once we get to town." And then a little inconsequently he added: "Poor devil."
He left her with Mrs. Sidmouth—a woman of understanding who could be trusted not to ask too many fool questions—and went to the local drug store for something for his face. That the whole story would be public property by the next day he knew, but he thought it possible that Caterham himself might come in that night. And so he went to the club. If Caterham did come that was where he would go, and Somerset was not shirking a meeting.
There were several men there when he arrived who stared at him curiously—the chemist had not been over-successful. But wisely they forebore to make any comment. His expression did not invite chaff.
He dined there and waited till eleven, but there was no sign of Caterham. Then he went to the hotel and to bed—but not to sleep. It was, of course, impossible to leave things as they were, and the sooner they were settled the better. He blamed Caterham not at all for fighting him. He could even bring himself to forgive the shooting, since no damage had been done. But what was exercising his mind was whether the blood-letting had done any good. Would Caterham—now that his first fury was over—be prepared to discuss the matter calmly?
He tried to argue out the rights and wrongs of the case as he lay in bed and stared up into the darkness. To the world it would be just the old eternal triangle and, shorn of trappings, that was exactly what it was. But those trappings did count, so far as the triangle itself was concerned. There had been nothing between Ruth and himself, except one kiss; the instant they were sure how things stood between them he had spoken to Caterham. There had been nothing clandestine about it; no blame could be attached to him on that score. True he had, according to the old tag, eaten the husband's salt; but one of the things Somerset had never yet fathomed was how a man could get to know a woman without eating at her house. And he had had no meal there since he had realised the truth. He never would have one again.
The night dragged wearily by, and always did his thoughts come back to the same point: how would Caterham square up with the situation? Would he—and this was the fear that haunted him most—would he refuse to divorce her? No ordinary man would do such a thing; but was Caterham ordinary? His wild rage of the previous afternoon was not extraordinary, but now that that was over, what was his reaction going to be? For Ruth was still his wife. He could not force her to return to his roof, and as she had money of her own she was independent of him financially. She could go back to England, as could Somerset. But if Caterham refused to set her free, what then?
Light was streaming through the window before he finally fell into a troubled sleep, and when he was called his brain again began turning over the problem. In any event, the whole thing would have to be gone into that day. He would go to Caterham's farm, leaving Ruth with Mrs. Sidmouth, and if Caterham shot him on sight—well, it was a risk that had to be run. So after breakfast he wrote her a note telling her what his plans were, and sent it round by one of the boys; he felt it was better not even to see her till matters were settled one way or the other. Then he got into his car and started, off for Caterham's farm.
It seemed strangely silent as he drove up to the door; there was no sign of a boy anywhere, and no sound of movement. He had no weapon with him; he had decided that it was better to go unarmed. If Caterham wished to shoot him, he could do so from a distance, and no revolver would help. And if he was in a reasonable mood the fact that Somerset was defenceless would help to keep him so.
There was still no sign of life as he walked round the house, and his footsteps rang loud as he reached the stoep. And then, quite suddenly, he saw Caterham seated at the dining-room table with his head between his hands. And in front of him was a bottle of whisky. For a moment Somerset paused; then he stepped into the room.
"A little earlier than I expected, Mr. Somerset," said Caterham without looking up, and he realised the interview was going to be difficult.
"Shall we talk this over quietly, Caterham?" he said.
"Is there anything to talk over?"
"A lot. In the first place, I want you to realise that there has been absolutely nothing wrong between Ruth and me."
Caterham raised his head and stared at him, and there was a look of such maniacal rage in his eyes that involuntarily Somerset recoiled a step.
"You liar," said Caterham, speaking through set lips.
"I am not a liar," repeated Somerset, controlling his temper. "If you will throw your mind back some weeks you may remember a night I dined here—the last night before I went away. You were foully rude to Ruth in front of me, and it was after you had gone that we found out how things were."
Caterham threw back his head and laughed discordantly.
"Because of that," continued Somerset, "I went away. We both thought it unfair to you that I should be over here until we were sure."
"And now you are sure," sneered Caterham.
"Exactly," said Somerset gravely. "We are sure. And I told you yesterday afternoon, which was the first possible occasion."
"Most considerate of you, Mr. Somerset. I appreciate it. And what do you propose should happen next?"
"That is what I am here to discuss. Presumably, now that you know the facts, you will divorce her as soon as it can be arranged."
"You presume a lot, Mr. Somerset."
"For God's sake, drop the Mister and talk sense. I'm sorry this has happened, but the thing is not so unique as all that. It's not the first time that a tangle of this sort has occurred. And in this case the matter is simplified by the fact that you don't love her."
"That doesn't alter the fact that you came here and stole my wife."
"You admit, then, that you don't love her?"
"She was my wife—mine. How dared you take her away in your car?"
"Because you were set for murder, Caterham. That's why I took her. And if she hadn't been in the dickey you would have murdered her.