“There’s been a terrible affair up in Charlton Wood, sir, John Harris, the keeper, on going his round to-night found a man shot dead. They sent down to the house to telephone to the doctor half-an-hour ago.”
“Who’s the man?” I gasped, springing up at the servant’s startling declaration, while Eric stood rigid.
“Nobody knows. They haven’t brought him down to the village yet.”
Eric and I exchanged glances. But we were silent—and our silence was surely more expressive than words.
Chapter Three.
Describes a Man and a Mystery.
“It’s probably some poor beggar who’s committed suicide,” I remarked, in order to allay Rainer’s suspicions, if he had noticed the change in our countenances when he made his startling announcement.
“He’s badly-dressed, Harris says. Perhaps he’s a tramp,” remarked the servant.