“Yes, here between these two roads.”
“There is a cottage here,” said Freyberger, pointing to a spot so marked at the angle where the path met the road.
“Yes, Bronson’s cottage. He was murdered a hundred yards away from his home. There is a great heap of refuse in the middle of the field, and the body lay behind it and so was not discovered for some hours. There are no back windows to the cottage and no back door.”
“Are there any strangers lodging at Sonning?”
“Yes, a few, but no one at all of a suspicious nature, or likely to have anything to do with the crime.”
“I imagine,” said Freyberger, “that the murderer is still in the neighbourhood of Sonning. Of course, I may be wrong, still I intend to go there and make some observations. I would prefer to go alone; you are known in the neighbourhood and I am not.”
“How shall you go?”
“I—Oh, I shall go as if I were going for pleasure, not business. I shall hire a boat and go by river.”
“Have you any arms?”
“No; if I had a pistol, and if I were so fortunate as to find my man, I might be unfortunate enough to shoot him. Pistols have a habit of going off in struggles. Besides, I have a nervous horror of them.”