“Who?” she said.  “Not my father?”

“No, no; Mr. Cossey.”

“Oh,” she said, with a sigh of relief.  “Why did you frighten me so?”

The Colonel smiled grimly at this unconscious exhibition of the relative state of her affections.

“What has happened to him?” asked Ida, this time with a suitable expression of concern.

“He has been accidentally shot.”

“Who by?”

“Mrs. Quest.”

“Then she did it on purpose—­I mean—­is he dead?”

“No, but I believe that he will die.”

They looked at one another, and each read in the eyes of the other the thought which passed through their brains.  If Edward Cossey died they would be free to marry.  So clearly did they read it that Ida actually interpreted it in words.

“You must not think that,” she said, “it is very wrong.”

“It is wrong,” answered the Colonel, apparently in no way surprised at her interpretation of his thoughts, “but unfortunately human nature is human nature.”

Then he went on to tell her all about it.  Ida made no comment, that is after those first words, “she did it on purpose,” which burst from her in astonishment.  She felt, and he felt too, that the question as to how that gun went off was one which was best left uninquired into by them.  No doubt if the man died there would be an inquest, and the whole matter would be investigated.  Meanwhile one thing was certain, Edward Cossey, whom she was engaged to, was shot and likely to die.

Presently, while they were still talking, the Squire came in from his walk.  To him also the story was told, and to judge from the expression of his face he thought it grave enough.  If Edward Cossey died the mortgages over the Honham property would, as he believed, pass to his heir, who, unless he had made a will, which was not probable, would be his father, old Mr. Cossey, the banker, from whom Mr. de la Molle well knew he had little mercy to expect.  This was serious enough, and still more serious was it that all the bright prospects in which he had for some days been basking of the re-establishment of his family upon a securer basis than it had occupied for generations would vanish like a vision.  He was not more worldly-minded than are other men, but he did fondly cherish a natural desire to see the family fortunes once more in the ascendant.  The projected marriage between his daughter and Edward Cossey would have brought this about most fully, and however much he might in his secret heart distrust the man himself, and doubt whether the match was really acceptable to Ida, he could not view its collapse with indifference.  While they were still talking the dressing-bell rang, and Harold rose to go.

“Stop and dine, won’t you, Quaritch?” said the Squire.

Harold hesitated and looked at Ida.  She made no movement, but her eyes said “stay,” and he sighed and yielded.  Dinner was rather a melancholy feast, for the Squire was preoccupied with his own thoughts, and Ida had not much to say.  So far as the Colonel was concerned, the recollection of the tragedy he had witnessed that afternoon, and of all the dreadful details with which it was accompanied, was not conducive to appetite.