“Not in the least. I'm sure I should have disliked soldiering heartily. It does not discommode me in the saddle, and since hunting is the only sport I have the least desire to engage in, any sympathy you may be silently bestowing on me is entirely wasted.”
“Do you get much hunting, sir?”
“No, I cannot afford it. It doesn't run to more than one decent hunter. Not a bad-looking horse, and not a bad performer on his going-days. Other times, it's a hit 'em and leave 'em, but he hasn't gone back on me yet.”
“Your brother didn't hunt?”
“No, he was such a dreary type, always either treacling trees, or observing the habits of some birds, and shooting others.”
“What made him commit suicide—if I may ask?”
“I've told you: I did. With his dying breath he told me so, and you have to believe dying words, don't you?”
“Well, I wouldn't so to say bank on them—not under those circumstances. In my experience, the sort of messages suicides leave behind them would be better put straight on the fire, because they only bring a lot of misery on people that in nine cases out of ten don't deserve it.”
“Oh, would you put it as strongly as that? I thought it was so annoying of him: like uttering a dirty crack, and then walking out of the room before it can be answered. We have now reached my ancestral home: go in!”
The Chief Inspector stepped through the gate in the wall, and paused for a moment, looking at the gracious house before him.