He walked over to where Maurice Chacewater was lying. The body was on its back; and a glance at the head was enough to show that life must be extinct.
“It’s not pretty,” Sir Clinton said as he pulled out his handkerchief and covered the dead face. “Shot at close range, evidently. I don’t wonder you were a bit upset, Mold.”
He glanced round the little glade, then turned again to the keeper.
“When did you find him?” he demanded.
“Just before I rang you up, sir. As soon as I came across him, I ran off to my cottage and telephoned to you.”
“When were you over this ground last?—before you found him, I mean.”
“Just before dusk, last night, sir. He wasn’t there, then.”
“You’re sure?”
“Certain, sir. I couldn’t have missed seeing him.”
“You haven’t touched the body?”