"He felt certain it must be the result of some private grudge; the attack was such a vicious one—as if the one idea had been to kill—to wreak vengeance."
"What time of day was this done?" asked Percivale, who was following every word with close interest.
"As near as possible at five o'clock, one evening towards the end of June. The time can be fixed pretty conclusively, for when Miss Brabourne and her maid passed the place shortly before, he was alive, seated on a camp-stool; on their return he was lying in the grass, motionless."
"And was there any inhabitant of the village likely to bear the artist a grudge?"
"Impossible! He was an utter stranger."
"Did anyone see a stranger pass through? Let me know the circumstances more accurately. Describe the scene of the occurrence."
Claud eagerly complied, supplying Mr. Percivale with every detail, and doing it with the intelligent accuracy which was part of his nature. The other listened closely, questioning here and there, and finally gave his conclusion with calm conviction.
"Every word you utter convinces me that for a stranger of any sort to penetrate into the valley, track Mr. Allonby's whereabouts, and vanish without leaving a trace, taking with him a pudding-basin as a memento of his vengeance, amounts to a moral impossibility. It is absurd. You say, too, that Mr. Allonby has no idea himself on the subject—says he has no enemies—is as much in the dark as anyone?"
"Yes, and I believe him: he is a thoroughly simple-minded, honest fellow."
"Then it stands to reason, in my opinion, that the murderer is an inhabitant of Edge Valley."