“And now I’ll never get that apology off my chest, after brooding over it all afternoon. I owed him that.”
Sir Clinton crossed the room and picked up the air-gun.
“This seems pretty strong. Can you kill anything with it?”
Arthur’s grief seemed to pass away with the opening up of a fresh subject.
“I was out with it in the spinney this afternoon, potting rabbits. It makes less noise than a rook-rifle. Scares the bunnies less when you fire. But I only got a couple of brace in the whole afternoon.”
Sir Clinton made no reply. He tried the spring of the air-gun; looked to see that the weapon was unloaded; and then pulled the trigger. For a weapon of its size the report was not loud. He was about to try it a second time when his ear was caught by a sound of limping footsteps in the passage. Again the door of the room opened, and Sir Clinton hastily put the gun back against the wall.
Ernest Shandon shuffled into the room and blinked round the assembled group in dull surprise.
“I’ve had a devil of a time,” he said grumpily, “I’ve been walking miles with a nail in my boot.”
Stenness stepped into the breach once more and explained the state of affairs. At first, Ernest seemed frankly incredulous.
“This must be a joke of yours, Stenness. What I mean to say is, the thing’s impossible. Murders don’t happen to people like us, you know. It’s the kind of thing one finds among the lower classes.”