"I couldn't 'elp it," yelled the taxi-man, "'e fired at me. Ow, Gawd, I couldn't 'elp it."
Lord Peter and Parker arrived together, panting.
"Here, constable," gasped his lordship; "I know this man. He has an unfortunate grudge against my brother. In connection with a poaching matter—up in Yorkshire. Tell the coroner to come to me for information."
"Very good, my lord."
"Don't photograph that," said Lord Peter to the man with the reflex, whom he suddenly found at his elbow.
The photographer shook his head.
"They wouldn't like to see that, my lord. Only the scene of the crash and the ambulance-men. Bright, newsy pictures, you know. Nothing gruesome"—with an explanatory jerk of the head at the great dark splotches in the roadway—"it doesn't pay."
A red-haired reporter appeared from nowhere with a note-book.
"Here," said his lordship, "do you want the story? I'll give it you now."