"How's that, sir?" he inquired.
I felt a wild desire to retort, "Not a bit like it!" but fortunately Maurice took up the dialogue. In curt and apparently indignant phrases he described the gross outrage of the previous day, turning every now and then to me to confirm his statements.
"Poaching and robbery," he finished, "I can put up with, but when it comes to a cold-blooded and deliberate attempt to murder one of my guests, I think it is time that the police interfered."
A more dumbfounded man than that poor police inspector I have seldom seen. He listened to the story with an amazement that bordered on the pathetic, and when Maurice had finished, produced a red cotton handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
"Lord bless us, Mr. Furnivall!" he observed. "Who'd have thought it?"
Then his professional instincts got the better of him. "I'll make a note or two of your statement while it's fresh in me mind," he added, pulling out a large notebook. "What time might the incident have occurred?"
"The incident," I replied, "occurred as nearly as possible at a quarter to six."
"Ah!" said he, jotting down the fact; "and maybe, sir, you'd be able to recognise the men?"
I shook my head. "I doubt it," I said. "It was getting a bit dusk, and I wasn't exactly in a position to stare at them. You'd better try the gentleman at the Plough who came to my rescue. He had a much better sight of them."
"Ah!" said the Inspector, "his name being——?"