“Where do you keep the key?”
“Ted and me had a place for it the others don't know about, sir, so as Claud and Alfie couldn't get in and monkey with the tools when we wasn't there.”
“Well, where was this place?”
Reg twisted his hat round and round between his hands. “Ted and me put tarred felt over the roof, to keep the rain out, sir. There's a place where you can slip the key underneath it.”
Hemingway's brows snapped together. “Is that where you always put the key?”
“Yessir,” said Reg nervously. “Nobody knows about it, “cept Ted and me—honest, sir!”
Hemingway said nothing for a moment, visualising the row of cottages, from the upper back-windows of which, he judged, a sufficiently good view could be obtained of the line of narrow gardens. Reg swallowed convulsively, and went on twisting his hat.
“Now, look here, my lad!” said Hemingway. “I'm not going to ask you why you didn't do what your brother told you, and take that rifle back to Mr. Cliburn, because I know why you didn't. Nor am I going to tell you that you've been breaking the law by having in your possession a gun without a Firearms licence, because I've no doubt Constable Hobkirk's already torn you off the strip.”
“Yessir,” acknowledged the culprit, with a sickly smile. “I'm very sorry, sir.”
“Well, see you don't do it again! You answer what I am going to ask you truthfully, and very likely you'll hear no more about it. Did you have that rifle out on the common on Saturday?”