Tollart emerged into the hall as the Squire spoke, but did not seem to be over-eager to reply. He was a tall, bulky man, with a large red perspiring face, eyes like poached eggs, and a loose mouth suggestive of the hard drinker. As Mrs. Jabber had hinted, he had already had his morning dram, and his wits seemed to be muddled. Not at all the man, as Rupert thought with some disgust, to examine a murdered fellow-mortal's remains.
"Whew, isn't it hot, Hendle?" he remarked, mopping his streaming face with a dingy handkerchief. "That in there"--he jerked his head toward the study--"will have to be buried pretty smart; it won't keep long. The sooner he's under ground the better."
"He won't be put under ground," said Kensit, smartly. "The Leighs have their family vault, you know, doctor."
"Well! Well, vault or grave, the weather's too hot to keep the thing sweet," was Tollart's unpleasant reply. "Nice business, isn't it, Hendle? I always thought that the old man would be knocked on the head."
"Why?" asked the Squire, and Kensit looked the same question.
"Why!"--Tollart leaned against the pile of books near the wall, as his constant nipping made him shaky on his ponderous legs--"why, because he never locked up the house, and it stands away from the village in quite a lonely fashion. Anyone could break in here, or rather walk in, as Leigh never bothered about bolts and bars."
"There was nothing to guard, Tollart. I don't think it was worth any burglar's while to risk his neck for nothing."
"The man who downed Leigh was of a different opinion," said Tollart grimly.
"Do you think a burglar killed him, sir?" asked Kensit anxiously.
"Who else?"