The procession had scarcely passed over more than a quarter of a mile of the road, when a vehicle appeared some distance ahead.
“Steady,” said the sergeant. “It’s the Major in his trap. I sent a mounted man for him. You’ll be in trouble about the handcuffs, Jonas, my man.”
“Maybe the murderer would keep his hands together to oblige us,” suggested the constable.
“I’ll not be a party to deception,” said his superior. “Halt!”
Harold looked up and saw a dog-cart just at hand. It was driven by a middle-aged gentleman, and a groom was seated behind. Harold had an impression that he had seen the driver previously, though he could not remember when or where he had done so. He rather thought he was an officer whom he had met at some place abroad.
The dog-cart was pulled up, and the officials saluted in their own way, as the gentleman gave the reins to his groom and dismounted.
“An arrest, sir,” said the sergeant. “The two woodcutters came upon him hiding in their shed at dawn, and sent for the constable. Jonas, very properly, sent for me, and I despatched a man for you, sir. When arrested, he made up a cock-and-bull story, and a watch, supposed to be his murdered lordship’s, was found concealed about his person. It’s now in my possession.”
“Good,” said the stranger. Then he subjected Harold to a close scrutiny.
“I know now where I met you,” said Harold. “You are Major Wilson, the Chief Constable of the County, and you lunched with us at Abbeylands two years ago.”
“What! Mr. Wynne!” cried the man. “What on earth can be the meaning of this? Your poor father—”