‘I know it’s not really important,’ Cicely said to Glass. ‘But I promised Osbert I would ask you to make sure someone looked after Tom’s dog.’

Glass looked at her blankly for a moment; he had still not recovered from his shock. Having changed Dan’s position and told him to act as stop, and then to have heard that the stop had been shot, and then to have discovered that by some extraordinary miracle Tom Harker had decided on his own initiative (and in fact quite rightly) that there ought to be two stops, and had thereby put himself as it were in Dan’s place and received the wound which might have been thought to have been intended by Providence for Dan – all this had shaken him deeply. Nevertheless when he did understand what Cicely was saying, he smiled at her.

‘I’ll see to it myself. Tell Master Osbert not to worry, I’ll go down there just as soon as we’ve got Tom seen to. I’ll get her up to my place, in the kennels with the other dogs, she’ll be all right there.’

Cicely’s thanks were interrupted by a much louder groan from Tom, a sort of quavering bellow, fading to a descending scale of ‘Oh, oh, oh!’

Sir Randolph knelt beside him and put his hand on his shoulder.

‘Come on Tom, it can’t be long before the doctor comes. I’m sorry you’ve had this wait. We’re getting some ice to stop the bleeding. Here, where’s that flask again?’

The flask was handed down to him, a worn leather one which had seen much service in the pocket and at the lips of Walter Weir, a faithful follower of the alcoholic faith; but it was held in a hand too white and well manicured to be Walter’s. Sir Randolph did not look up. Why did Gilbert Hartlip not go home? There was nothing he could do except embarrass everybody. He would be told soon enough whether or not his victim died; there was no need to hang about to see for himself.

Tom swallowed a mouthful of spirit, then turned his head away.

‘Alcohol never interested me,’ he said. ‘I seen too much of what it can do to a man.’ His speech was increasingly slurred; the left side of his jaw was shattered and was beginning to stiffen. ‘A smoke I like. A smoke and a chat is a sociable thing. I seen too many men brought low by drink or gambling.’

Glass, to whom this theme of Tom’s was familiar, said from his position near Tom’s feet, ‘Stay quiet, Tom, I would. Relax, that’s what you want to do. Don’t try to talk.’

‘Not talk?’ Tom’s voice rose. ‘Not talk, he says. I’ve all eternity not to talk, haven’t I?’