"So did I, sir. When I heard he was going abroad I thought it was about the best thing that could happen. I was afraid that if he stayed on much longer in these parts he'd find himself in trouble."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, sir," continued the man in blue, slowly, and with his eyes bent on the tablecloth. "One don't wish to talk ill of the dead, and I don't know as I've got anything to say against Will himself more than this, that of late he seemed to be getting mixed up with them as would have done him no good."
"I knew nothing of this," said Mr. Ormond.
"No, I don't suppose you would, sir; but such things naturally come under our notice, and he wouldn't have been the first young chap I've seen get associated with an idle, drinking, betting lot, and then come to grief. However, the poor fellow's beyond all that now, and I can only say I'm sorry to hear of his death."
As Mr. Evans walked home, cogitating on the interview which has just been described, the sly smile once more returned to his face; and on entering his own door, and being greeted with the savoury smell of something hot for supper, his good-humour was so far increased that he laughed aloud. Seated at table, he entertained his wife with an account of his visit to the magistrate's house.
"Well, what could have been the meaning of it all?" inquired Mrs. Evans. "Where's the sense in treating a knife in that fashion?"
The sergeant leant back in his chair and chuckled. "It beat me for some time," he answered. "But then I saw through it clear enough."
"And who done it, then? A burglar?"
"Burglar my grandmother!" replied Mr. Evans. "No, 'twas like this—so at least I puts it together. The servant gal, who ought to have kept the knife in its proper place, leaves it lying about in the damp, and lets the blade get rusty. Then, instead of telling her mistress, she gets Cole to put it on the stone, or else does it herself, and they keeps grinding away till the knife's spoilt, and then, to end the matter, one of 'em chucks it into the pond, and so it gets lost."