I ran up to my room for hat, coat, flashlight and gun.
The Ringgos were standing at the front door when I started downstairs again.
He had put on a dark raincoat, buttoned tight over his injured arm, its left sleeve hanging empty. His right arm was around his wife. Both of her bare arms were around his neck. She was bent far back, he far forward over her. Their mouths were together.
Retreating a little, I made more noise with my feet when I came into sight again. They were standing apart at the door, waiting for me. Ringgo was breathing heavily, as if he had been running. He opened the door.
Mrs. Ringgo addressed me:
“Please don’t let my foolish husband be too reckless.”
I said I wouldn’t, and asked him:
“Worth while taking any of the servants or farm hands along?”
He shook his head.
“Those that aren’t hiding would be as useless as those that are,” he said. “They’ve all had it taken out of them.”
He and I went out, leaving Mrs. Ringgo looking after us from the doorway. The rain had stopped for the time, but a black muddle overhead promised more presently.
Ringgo led me around the side of the house, along a narrow path that went downhill through shrubbery, past a group of small buildings in a