“Chard. Good fellow, Chard! Rode off to the place where you were hit as soon as he’d fetched the sawbones over last night. Thought he might discover some trace. Well, he did. Found Martin’s gun thrust down a rabbithole, and his shot-belt in a gorse-bush. Looks as though he had got rid of ‘em quickly, because the end of the stock wasn’t hidden well. That’s all, but everyone here knows you’ve been shot at, and your brother ain’t to be found — and if you think that news won’t spread, you’re a sapskull, Ger!”
“Martin would not take ball out for kestrels!”
“Daresay he wouldn’t. Nothing to stop him loading his piece with ball, if he went for bigger game!” said the Viscount brutally. “No wish to distress you, but he had a couple of rounds in his belt. Seen ‘em — not gammoning you!”
The Earl pressed a hand to his brow. “A couple of rounds in his belt .... Yes, and what more?”
“Nothing. No trace of him to be found. Thought he had done for you, of course! Took fright! Just the sort of hothead who would do so!”
“Very well. And then?”
“Got my own notion about that,” said Ulverston darkly.
“What is it?”
“Nearest port. If he took fright, dared not stay — only thing to do, get out of the country!”
The Earl’s hand dropped. “Yes. I think I see.”