"Well--did you see anyone?" asked Herne impatiently.
"Noa, Squoire; I see noabody."
"Did you hear the shot fired?"
"Ees, I did, Squoire. I was passin' t' church wi' Jaane Bilway when I 'eard it. ''Uilol' ses I. 'there's some poachin' goin' on'; and I wanted to goa back and see; but Jaane she ses, 'Giles, you're a fule; 'tain't nothin',' soa I goes on wi' 'er to the Methody Chapel."
"About what time was the shot fired?" asked Paul, regardless of a frown from the squire.
"Just about nine, sir. T'clock was striking when I 'eard the shot."
"And you saw no one when in the lane?" said Herne, giving Brent a shilling.
"Noa, Squoire, not one soul, I sweer."
"Very good, Brent. You can go."
The man pulled a rough forelock and slouched off heavily. Herne looked after him with a frown, and afterwards turned towards the clergyman with a sharp look of interrogation. "Do you believe what that fellow says, Chaskin?" he demanded.