“It was he, Crewe,” he exclaimed.
“And nothing wrong?” asked Crewe.
“No, nothing wrong with him,” was the reply. “But he has had the most extraordinary adventure—gruesome, in fact.”
“Gruesome?” The tone in which Crewe repeated the word showed that his interest had been aroused.
“Well, you might not call it gruesome, Crewe, as you have had so much to do with gruesome tragedies, but the fact of the matter is the boy seems to have discovered a murder.”
“A murder?”
“That is how the police look at it, he says. Harry rang me up from the police station at Ashlingsea—a fishing village about twelve miles from here along the coast. His horse went lame and he was caught in the storm. He came across an old farm-house and went there for shelter, but he found the house was empty. He got in somehow, and on going upstairs found the dead body of a young man—the owner of the farm. Lumsden the owner’s name is; quite a boy, that is to say, something under thirty. Cliff Farm is the name of the place. I know it well—I have often passed it while out motoring.”
“How was he killed—did your nephew say?”
“Shot.”
“The dead body was there and the house empty,” said Crewe, in a meditative voice. “That looks as if the police will not have much difficulty in picking up the scent. The fact that he would be alone could not have been known to many people.”