Just as he did so, voices sounded outside the cottage. Edgson, with three men in overcoats and bowler hats were coming up the garden path.
They entered the room without ceremony, and old Edgson, who accompanied them, said:
“These are the gentlemen from London, Master Raife.”
Two of the men respectfully saluted the young baronet—for he had now succeeded to the title—while the third, Raife recognised as Inspector Caldwell from Tunbridge Wells.
“Well, Caldwell,” he said. “This is a very sad business for us.”
“Very sad, indeed, sir,” was the dark-bearded man’s reply. “We all sympathise with you and her ladyship very deeply, sir. Sir Henry was highly respected everywhere, sir, and there wasn’t a more just, and yet considerate, magistrate on any county bench in England.”
“Is that the popular opinion?” asked Raife, thoughtfully.
“Yes, sir. That’s what everybody says. The awful news has created the greatest sensation in Tunbridge Wells. I wonder who this blackguardly individual is?” he added.
The two detectives from Scotland Yard had crossed to where the dead man was lying, his white face upturned, and were scrutinising him narrowly.
“I don’t recognise him,” declared the elder of the pair. “He’s done time, no doubt. Look at his gloves.”