“You know this place, Bill?”
“Yes, sir.” The voice was guttural and hoarse. “Ibbley Copse.”
“You have just killed a man: you shot him, just as you said you did in your confession.”
The half-witted youth nodded.
“I killed him because I hated him,” he said.
The Frog nodded obediently and got into the driver’s seat. . . .
John Bennett woke with a start. He looked at the damp bell-push in his hand with a rueful smile, and began winding up the flex. Presently he reached the bush where the camera was concealed, and, to his dismay, found that the indicator showed the loss—for loss it was—of five hundred feet. He looked at the badger hole resentfully, and there, as in mockery, he saw again the tip of a black nose, and shook his fist at it. Beyond, he saw two men lying, both asleep, and both, apparently, tramps.
He carried the camera back to where he had left his coat, put it on, hoisted the box into position and set off for Laverstock village, where, if his watch was right, he could catch the local that would connect him with Bath in time for the London express; and as he walked, he calculated his loss.