Darwen turned to Carstairs. "He was a red-headed man, a sailor or marine fireman. Lord knows how he came to get up there among the sheep and the shepherds."
"But what was the matter with him?"
"He was dead!" Darwen looked Mr Donovan steadily in the eyes. "His ribs were crushed in like an egg shell, and his neck was broken."
"Good God! Did he fall from the roof, or what?"
"Well!" Darwen shrugged his shoulders. "It seemed almost as though he had been hugged by a polar bear. In fact, that's the local theory, that he had a performing bear or animal of some sort which turned on him. They are searching the woods now; there's quite a reign of terror in the neighbourhood."
Carstairs stood up. "I say, I think I had better run home and see the old people."
Darwen caught him by the coat and pulled him into his seat. "It's alright, old chap, your brother's there, and they've got a lot of extra police from Gloucester and other places." Carstairs sat down again with an undecided air. He hadn't much confidence in his brother.
"It's alright; he's got a gun and a heavy service revolver, and Lord knows what." Darwen was speaking to Carstairs about his brother. He always admired the superb confidence Carstairs had in himself; he placed no reliance on other people. He still seemed unsatisfied. "Look here, old chap, I'm convinced that your old people will be alright."
Carstairs considered. "The guv'nor can take care of himself as a rule," he said thoughtfully, "and Stanley's alright, but too theoretical—you can't theorise with bears. I say, we can spare Bounce for a few days; I'll stand the expense and send him over with a revolver to sleep in the house for a bit. He can drive in tin tacks at twenty yards—and I've seen Bounce on breakdowns." He seemed quite relieved and sat down again in peace.
"Who's Bounce?" Mr Donovan asked with interest.