“It's hardly a thing to laugh at, Clinton.”
“I'm not laughing,” Sir Clinton said soberly. “Hanging's no joke. Remember the Ballad of Sam Hall—
“Then the parson he will come. . . .
and all the rest of the gruesome ceremonial? It would be a bad business if the wrong person got hanged by mistake.”
Before Wendover could reply, the car drew up before the front of the hotel.
“You can get out here, squire. There's no need to go round with me to the garage.”
But as Wendover was prepared to get down, they saw the Australian, Cargill, hurrying towards them. He had been sitting on one of the garden-seats, evidently on the look-out for their arrival.
“I've been hunting for you for ever so long, Sir Clinton,” he explained as he came up to the car. “I missed you at lunch-time; and when I tried to get hold of you, I found you'd gone off. I've got something that seems important to show you.”
He fished in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a tiny glittering object which he handed over to the chief constable. Wendover saw, as it passed from hand to hand, that it was the empty case of a .38 cartridge.
“I've seen things of this sort before,” Sir Clinton said indifferently as he glanced at it. “I doubt if the loser's likely to offer a reward.”