"Where he was sleeping, and if we were going to make the gentleman comfortable, and if he had a taste for shooting, had I heard? Regular lot of questions!"
"Well, it's very kind of the Doctor to take an interest in my brother," I replied.
"Very, sir," Wordingham answered dryly. "Mr. Jones, he came down last night at ten o'clock, came down from London in his motor car, 'e did. He's at the school now, or leastways, with this tide and the moon getting up in an hour or so, he will be out on the marshes with the Doctor. I heard tell that they was to be out all night. Bill Jack Pearson, from the school, 'e told me."
Again there was silence, while I thought over this little bit of information, for anything is news in such a stagnant hole as Morstone. Mr. Jones was a friend of the Doctor's who often came to see him. He was a short, sturdy, red-faced man with bright blue eyes and a very reserved manner. We always understood that he was in business in the city, and well-to-do. Like the Doctor, he had a passion for wild-fowling, or that, at any rate, was supposed to be the reason for his visits, though Doris had more than once hinted to me that she thought Marjorie, her younger sister, was a bit of an attraction too.
"Ever been out with Mr. Jones, sir?" Wordingham asked.
"Not I. Why, I've only been out with the Doctor once in all the time I've been at Morstone. He seems to prefer to be alone."
"Aye, he's a solitary man, is the Doctor. On that time you went out with him, did you get anything, sir?"
"I got a couple of brent geese, but the Doctor was not in form at all and missed his one chance when they came over."
"Now, would you be surprised, sir, if I was to tell you that the Doctor is one of the worst shots in the parish?"
"I should be very surprised indeed. Why? He gets awfully good bags night after night—whenever he goes out, in fact."