“You know—the murder of the Right Honourable Lord Fotheringay.”
“What!” shouted Harold. “Lord—oh, you’re mad! Lord Fotheringay is my father, and he’s staying at Abbeylands. What do you mean, you idiot, by coming to me with such a story?” The policeman winked in by no means a subtle way at the two men with the bill-hooks; he then looked at Harold from head to foot, and gave a guffaw.
“The son of his lordship—the murdered man—you heard that, friends, after I gave the caution according to the Ack o’ Parliament?” he said.
“Ay, ay, we heard—leastways to that effeck,” replied one of the men.
“Then down it goes again him,” said the constable. “He’s a gentleman-Jack tramp—and that’s the worst sort—without hat or head gear, and down it goes that he said he was his lordship’s son.”
“For God’s sake tell me what you mean by talking of the murder of Lord Fotheringay,” said Harold. “There can be no truth in what you said. Oh, why do I wait here talking to this idiot?” He took a few steps toward one end of the shed. The men raised their bill-hooks, and the constable made an aggressive demonstration with his truncheon.
Against Stupidity the gods fight in vain, but now and again a man with good muscles can prevail against it. Harold simply dealt a kick upon the heavy handle of the bill-hook nearest to him, and it swung round and caught in the stomach the second man, who immediately dropped his implement. He needed both hands to press against his injured person.
The constable ran to the other end of the shed and blew his whistle.
Harold went out in the opposite direction and got upon the high road; but before he had quite made up his mind which way to go, he heard the clatter of a horse galloping. He saw that a mounted constable was coming up, and he also noticed with a certain amount of interest, that he was drawing a revolver.
Harold stood in the centre of the road and held up his hand.