"Well, I don't think we'll go that length. You can't prove anything against him, you see. He's too sly for that—and—well, it might be awkward for more than one of us."
"All right, cousin," said Jack, laughing. "But there's another thing. That fellow who was wounded in the Hollow! De Fronsac shot him, I'm sure; I never told you that Arthur and I saw him bundled into a lugger that night we followed De Fronsac from the house."
"That's a mystery. I can't explain it. And it doesn't matter much, now that De Fronsac is gone. By George, Jack! I fancy you've killed smuggling at Luscombe—for some time, at any rate. Now to bed. We'll have another talk in the morning."
Jack was up early, in spite of the lateness of the hour when he went to bed. He was at breakfast alone with Mr. Bastable when Mr. Goodman was announced.
"Good morning, sir. Good morning, Mr. Hardy. I've come to you as a justice of the peace, Mr. Bastable. You've heard of our little exploit last night?"
"You were in at the death, I believe. Well, sir?"
"Well, sir, we went to the Hollow this morning to seize the goods we understood were hidden there. In the summer-house we found a man, sir; I have him outside now. He tried to run away; but we collared him, and as he wouldn't give an account of himself I've brought him along. Perhaps you'll commit him as a rogue and vagabond."
"Bring him in, Mr. Goodman."
The riding-officer returned with a heavy, undersized, beetle-browed fellow, in very tattered garb.
"Why, 'tis the very man!" cried Jack. "This is the man De Fronsac shot."