“That what?”
“That ’twasn’t, as you might say, healthy for you hereabouts to-night, sir, and——”
“The thought charms me, Robert. And now—pray be gone.”
“But, sir, if you’ll only——”
“Damme! Will ye go?”
A distressful sigh; the sound of heavy feet unwillingly retreating, feet that hesitate more than once ere they finally die away. And presently the light tread comes on again, slow and unhurried as before. Then Murder, peering from the shadows, crouches low, raises and steadies right hand....
A ringing shot from the denser gloom, a cry of amazement lost in strangling groan.... A second shot, louder, nearer ... a dreadful gasping ... a horrid thrashing among the underbrush ... silence. Then Sir John, staring upon that place of horror, began to creep thither ... was aware that men were running towards him, shouting to one another, and, without looking, knew these for Robert and George Potter, which last bore a small, covered lanthorn.
So, together, they entered the little grove, and presently came upon a stilly shape crouched face down among the underbrush; and beholding the three-cornered hat of generous cock, the neat wig, the wide-skirted coat, Mr. Potter whistled softly.
“Rackon Sturton’s got it at last!” quoth he.