The dogs were muzzled and led away. One by one the labourers and servants dispersed. Two of them started off to telegraph for a drag. Stephen Hurd was one of the last to depart.
“I hope you will allow me to say how sorry I am for you,” Macheson declared earnestly. “Such a tragedy in a village like Thorpe seems almost incredible. I suppose it was a case of attempted robbery?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” Hurd answered. “There was plenty of money left untouched, and I can’t find that there is any short. The man arrived after the maids had gone to bed, but they heard him knock at the door, and heard my father let him in.”
“They didn’t hear any struggle then?” Macheson asked.
Hurd shook his head.
“There was only one blow upon his head,” he answered. “Graikson says that death was probably through shock.”
Macheson felt curiously relieved.
“The man did not go there as a murderer then,” he remarked. “Perhaps not even as a thief. There may have been a quarrel.”
“He killed him, anyhow,” Hurd said brokenly. “What time was it when you first saw him?”