We receded for some distance, while the publican pointed out the geographical position of the spot with its relation to the house and the high-road.
“It’s a lonely place ’ere of a night,” he said. “Just the place where a man might commit a murder. Funny, however, that the Colonel was wandering about in the park alone!”
“Curious, too, that his presence was not missed by his wife, or any of the household.”
“Yes,” he said. “Very mysterious, indeed. He must have gone out unknown to any one, and, when the place was locked up for the night, it was believed he was indoors.”
“He was wearing evening dress,” I said.
“Oh, I believe so. But I’m not certain. I’ve not heard how he was dressed—I say, Harding,” he cried, turning to a bent old man who chanced to be passing, “how was the Colonel dressed when he was found?”
“In his cut-away coat and shirt,” was the reply. “They said that his shirt-stud was stolen.”
“Ah!” exclaimed my garrulous friend, the publican, “that looks as though it was done with a motive of robbery—don’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, my thoughts reverting again, as they constantly did, to that strange conversation which I had overheard in the darkness, the words of a man who had practically acknowledged himself to be an assassin.
When we again emerged upon the high-road I parted from my companion, he returning to Hounslow and I continuing my walk along the highway leading to Twickenham.