"No," I replied cheerfully, "it was only my hat that went in." And taking off the article in question, I held it up to the light so that they could all see the bullet-hole.
"Great Scott!" cried York, "what's the meaning of that?" He seized the hat, and began examining the damage with vast interest, Sir George peering over his shoulder.
"It means," I retorted, "at least twenty-five shillings. That's one of Lincoln & Bennett's best." Then, with a kindly eye on Maurice, I proceeded to relate my spirited and entertaining experiences.
When I had finished there was a short silence. It was broken by Sir George, who, with his usual intelligence, went straight to the heart of the matter.
"B—b—but that was murder," he stammered, "cold-blooded murder!"
"I should describe it rather as hat slaughter," I said coolly, "but the intention seems to have been pretty obvious."
Maurice, whose face had not regained its colour, broke in with an oath. "It's those infernal marshmen!" he cried. "I've had trouble with them before, but never anything of this kind."
"What do you mean?" asked York, looking up from the hat.
"Why, there's a gang of scoundrels round the coast who make their living shooting duck. I was cautioned about them when I took the place. They think they own the marsh, and that no one else has a right to shoot there. I've heard lots of stories about their blackguardly tricks, but of course I never imagined for a moment they'd go as far as this." He turned to me. "My dear chap," he added, "I can't tell you how sorry I am."
I thought I could tell him very accurately, but I contented myself with shaking the hand that he thrust impulsively out.