as to shut out observation from the street, but the height that made it
difficult for an outsider to see over it also rendered escape
impossible. If the man had left the gate open he might have got away
unnoticed, but, as it was, Mrs. Forder's screams aroused the
neighbourhood, and before the murderer succeeded in undoing the
fastening, a crowd had collected with a policeman in its centre, and
escape was out of the question. Only one shot had been fired, but at
such close quarters that the bullet went through the body. John Forder
was not dead, but lay on the grass insensible. He was carried into the
house and the family physician summoned. The doctor sent for a
specialist to assist him, and the two men consulted together. To the
distracted woman they were able to give small comfort. The case at best
was a doubtful one. There was some hope of ultimate recovery, but very
little.

Meanwhile the murderer lay in custody, his own fate depending much on
the fate of his victim. If Forder died, bail would be refused; if he
showed signs of recovering, his assailant had a chance for, at least,
temporary liberty. No one in the city, unless it were the wife herself,
was more anxious for Forder's recovery than the man who had shot him.

The crime had its origin in a miserable political quarrel--mere wrangle
about offices. Walter Radnor, the assassin, had 'claims' upon an
office, and, rightly or wrongly, he attributed his defeat to the secret
machinations of John Forder. He doubtless did not intend to murder his
enemy that morning when he left home, but heated words had speedily
followed the meeting, and the revolver was handy in his hip pocket.

Radnor had a strong, political backing, and, even after he stretched
his victim on the grass, he had not expected to be so completely