“No. If I’d run across Smith I should probably have mentioned it to him, but I haven’t seen him.”
“Was there any one who could have heard the shot?”
“There might have been. Quite likely not. My man had gone home and Smith’s farm lies a good way back from the lane.”
“Why did you hide the revolver at the back of the drawer?”
Leslie coloured hotly.
“I’ve never hidden it. The drawer’s full of mufflers and silk handkerchiefs and things and I keep it at the back for fear Mrs. Grey, who does my room, should get monkeying with it. She puts my handkerchiefs back when she brings them from the wash and I didn’t want to run any risk with the revolver.”
“You persist in your statement that you did not return to the farm till eight o’clock?”
“I went for a long walk, as I have said, and did not get back till close on eight. Hang it all, if I’d killed Mrs. Draycott do you suppose I’d have left my revolver in a drawer where any one could find it? Without cleaning it or reloading it either?”
Leslie’s quick temper had got the better of him at last.
“That is for the Jury to decide, Mr. Leslie,” said the Coroner. There was a sharp note of reproof in his voice and Fayre realized that, in a moment of irritation, Leslie had gone a long way towards effacing the good impression he had made in the beginning.