“It was Jem, sir—the tapster. It was when I went up to the bar for a pint of burgundy for a gentleman dining in the coffee-room that Jem gave it to me. It was Captain Trimble who picked it up off the ground, where it was a-laying. It got swep’ off the bar, I dessay, sir, the taproom being crowded at the time, and Jem with his hands full.”
“Thank you,” said Sir Richard. “That is all.”
The waiter went away considerably mystified. Sir Richard, on the other hand, felt that the mystery had been satisfactorily explained, and sat down to await the landlord’s return with the ingredients for a bowl of punch.
Mr Philips’ residence was situated some five miles from Queen Charlton, and it was consequently some time before the clatter of horses’ hooves in the street heralded his arrival. Sir Richard was squeezing the lemon into the punch bowl when he was ushered into the parlour, and looked up fleetingly to say: “Ah, how do you do? Mr Philips, I apprehend?”
Mr Philips was a grizzled gentleman with a harassed frown, and a slight paunch.
“Your servant, sir! Have I the honour of addressing Sir Richard Wyndham?”
“Mine, sir, is the honour,” said Sir Richard absently, intent upon his punch.
“Sir,” said Mr Philips, “your very extraordinary communication—I may say, your unprecedented disclosure—has, as you perceive, brought me immediately to enquire into this incredible affair!”
“Very proper,” said Sir Richard. “You will wish to visit the scene of the crime, I imagine. I can give you the direction, but no doubt the village constable is familiar with the locality. The body, Mr Philips, is—or was—lying in the clearing in the middle of the spinney, a little way down the road.”
“Do you mean to tell me, sir, that this story is true?” demanded the magistrate.