The police sergeant approached him.
“Well, Rafferty,” said Sir Lucius, “what’s the matter with you?”
“Have you any fresh news of my daughter?” said Lord Torrington.
“I have not, my Lord. Barring what Professor Wilder told me I know no more. There was a lady belonging to his party out on the bay looking out for sponges and she came across——”
“You told us all that yesterday,” said Sir Lucius. “What’s the matter with you now?”
“What they say,” said the sergeant cautiously, “is that it’s murder.”
“Murder! Good heavens! Who’s dead?”
“Timothy Sweeny,” said the sergeant
“It might be worse,” said Sir Lucius. “If the people of this district have had the sense to kill Sweeny I’ll have a higher opinion of them in the future than I used to have. Who did it?”
“It’s not known yet who did it,” said the sergeant, “but there was two shots fired into the house last night. There’s eleven panes of glass broken and the wall at the far side of the room is peppered with shot, and I picked ten grains of it out of the mattress myself and four out of the pillow, without counting what might be in Timothy Sweeny, which the doctor is attending to. Number 5 shot it was and Sweeny is moaning terrible. You’d hear him now if you was to step up a bit in the direction of the house.”