Light o' the Morning by L.T. Meade

The Squire was better, and not better. He had received a very nasty flesh-wound in the thigh; but the bullet had been extracted. There was not the slightest clew to the identity of his would-be murderer. The Squire himself had said nothing. He had been found almost bleeding to death by the roadside; the alarm had been given, and in terror and consternation his own tenants had brought him home.

The Squire could have said a good deal, but he said nothing. The police came and asked him questions, but he kept his lips closed.