're talking like an idiot. A man is shot dead at
his own front door, in a house standing in the midst of a big estate,
and you tell me it's an accident!"

"No, sir. I on'y mentioned that on the off chance. Queer things do
happen, an' one shouldn't lose sight of that fact just because it's
unusual. Now, sir, with your permission, I want Brodie, an' Smith, an'
all the men servants you can spare for the next half hour."

"Why?"

"Brodie can motor to the Inspector's office, an' tell him wot he
knows, stoppin' on the way to send Jenkins here. Some of us must
search the woods thoroughly, while others watch the open park, to make
sure no one escapes without bein' seen. It's my firm belief that the
man who fired that rifle is still hidin' among those trees. He may be
sneakin' off now, but we'd see him if we're quick in reachin' the
other side. Will you do as I ask, sir?"

Farrow was already in motion when Fenley's dazed mind recalled
something the policeman ought to know.

"I've telephoned to Scotland Yard half an hour ago," he said.

"That's all right, sir. The main thing now is to search every inch of
the woods. If nothing else, we may find footprints."

"And make plenty of new ones."

"Not if the helpers do as I tell 'em, sir."

"I can't argue. I'm not fit for it. Still, some instinct warns me you
are not adopting the best course. I think you ought to go in the car
and put the police into combined action."

"What are they to do, sir? The murderer won't carry a rifle through
the village, or along the open road. I fancy we'll come across the
weapon itself in the wood. Besides, the Inspector will do all that is
necessary when Brodie sees him. Reelly, sir, I _know_ I'm right."

"But should that artist be questioned?"

"Of course he will, sir. He won't run away. If he does, we'll soon nab
him. He's been stayin' at the White Horse Inn the last two days, an'
is quite a nice-spoken young gentleman. Why should _he_ want to shoot
Mr. Fenley?"

"He is annoyed with my father, for one thing."

"Eh? Wot, sir?"

Farrow, hitherto eager to be off on the hunt, stopped as if he heard a
statement of real importance.

Hilton Fenley pressed a hand to his eyes.

"It was nothing to speak of," he muttered. "He wrote asking permission
to sketch the house, and my father refused--just why I don't know;
some business matter had vexed him that day, I fancy, and he dashed
off the refusal on the spur of the moment. But a man does not