es. It was possible that
if it were proved afterwards that Mark Ablett had shot his brother, it
might also be proved that he was justified in so doing, and that when he
ran away from his brother's corpse he had really nothing to fear at the
hands of the Law. In this connection he need hardly remind the jury that
they were not the final tribunal, and that if they found Mark Ablett
guilty of murder it would not prejudice his trial in any way if and when
he was apprehended.... The jury could consider their verdict.

They considered it. They announced that the deceased had died as the
result of a bullet-wound, and that the bullet had been fired by his
brother Mark Ablett.

Bill turned round to Antony at his side. But Antony was gone. Across the
room he saw Andrew Amos and Parsons going out of the door together, and
Antony was between them.

CHAPTER XX. Mr. Beverley is Tactful

The inquest had been held at the "Lamb" at Stanton; at Stanton Robert
Ablett was to be buried next day. Bill waited about outside for his
friend, wondering where he had gone. Then, realizing that Cayley would
be coming out to his car directly, and that a farewell talk with Cayley
would be a little embarrassing, he wandered round to the yard at
the back of the inn, lit a cigarette, and stood surveying a torn and
weather-beaten poster on the stable wall. "GRAND THEATRICAL ENTER" it
announced, to take place on "Wednesday, Decem." Bill smiled to himself
as he looked at it, for the part of Joe, a loquacious postman, had
been played by "William B. Beverl," as the remnants of the poster still
maintained, and he had been much less loquacious than the author had
intended, having forgotten his words completely, but it had all been
great fun. And then he stopped smiling, for there would be no more fun
now at the Red House.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," said the voice of Antony behind him. "My
old friends Amos and Parsons insisted on giving me a drink."

He slipped his hand into the crook of Bill's arm, and smiled happily at
him.

"Why were you so keen about them?" asked Bill a little resentfully. "I
couldn't think where on earth you had got to."

Antony didn't say anything. He was staring at the poster.

"When did this happen?" he asked.

"What?"

Antony waved to the poster.

"Oh, that? Last Christmas. It was rather fun."

Antony began to laugh to himself.

"Were you good?"

"Rotten. I don't profess to be an actor."

"Mark good?"