"Murder, more likely," came a voice from behind, and Hereford, starting round, found himself face to face with his cousin, Oliver Deacon, who, hoe in hand, had just come through the fence from among the orange trees.
"Why murder?" asked Hereford sharply.
The other, a sallow-faced man some years older than Hereford, gave a disagreeable chuckle. "My dear Guy, every one knows the terms you and Blissett were on. There'll be a jury of crackers, all pals of the late unlamented, and they'll be only too glad to have a chance of taking it out of a man they think an aristocrat."
"What's the good of talking rot?" exclaimed Hereford impatiently. "If you were working in the grove I suppose you saw the whole thing?"
"Yes, I saw it," replied Deacon slowly.
"That's all right then. You know he brought it on himself."
There was a very peculiar look in Deacon's close-set eyes as he glanced at his cousin.
"I saw you hit Blissett over the head with the lead end of your quirt," he said in the same measured tones.
"What in thunder do you mean, Oliver? Didn't you see his pony kick him on the head?"
"I'm not so sure about that," was Deacon's reply.