He was evidently relieved by having found what he considered an apt simile.
“What happened after that?” Sir Clinton demanded.
“When I saw nobody near me I’ll admit I felt a bit funny. Here was a shot comin’, so it seemed, out o’ the empty air, with nothin’ to account for it. Straight away, I’ll admit, sir, I began thinkin’ of that Black Man that little Jennie Hitchin has been spreadin’ the story about lately . . .”
Sir Clinton pricked up his ears.
“We’ll hear about the Black Man later on, Mold, if you please. Tell us what you did at that moment.”
“Well, sir, I searched about. The moon was clear of clouds and the place was just an open glade. The shot had come from quite near by, as I said. But when I hunted I could find nothing. There wasn’t a track in the dew on the grass. My own tracks showed up in the moonlight as clear as clear. There wasn’t any one hiding in the old ruin; I went through and around it twice. There wasn’t a sound; for the shot had frightened the owl. I found nothing. And yet I’d take my oath that shot was fired not more than ten or a dozen yards away from me.”
“Did you hear any whistle of shot or a bullet?”
“No, sir.”
“H’m! That’s the whole story? Now, tell us about this Black Man you mentioned.”
Mold seemed rather ashamed.