Sir Clinton nodded to him to continue his story.
“When I got down to the road, I turned off in this direction. Now, that's the point where I do remember someone behind me. I heard steps. After a yard or two, I looked round—you know how one does that, without having any particular reason. But it was a heavily clouded night, and the moon didn't light things up much. All I could see was a figure tramping along the road behind me—about a couple of dozen yards behind, I should think.”
“No idea who it was, I suppose?” Sir Clinton questioned.
“Not the foggiest. I thought it might be one of the hotel people, so I slowed down a trifle for the sake of company. No one except some of the hotel crowd would be walking in this direction at that time of night. The next thing I heard was the sound of steps coming up behind me, and then there was the crack of a pistol, and down I went in the road with a bullet in my leg.”
“Whereabouts were you at the time?”
“About fifty yards along the road from the path to Flatt's cottage, I should say. But you'll find the place all right in daylight. I bled a good deal, and it'll be all over the road where I fell.”
“And then?”
“Well, I was considerably surprised,” said Cargill drily.
“Very natural in the circumstances,” Sir Clinton admitted, giving Cargill humour for humour. “What did you think had happened?”
“I didn't know,” the victim continued. “You see, I'm a total stranger here. Fordingbridge is the only person in the place who's met me before. No one that I know of could have a grudge against me. That's what surprises me in the business.”