“I think not. Of course, he might have shot himself, but from the position of the wound I think not. Besides, where is the revolver?”
We looked about, but could not discover it, and at the same time Booth constantly urged upon us not to move about lest we might destroy any footmarks that would lead to a clue.
While Booth was searching the dead man’s pockets of course finding nothing, Eric noticed a light approaching up the road, and pointed it out.
“That’s the gov’nor on ’is bike,” declared the constable. “I left word with my missis to send ’im up ’ere. I’m glad ’e’s come.”
We awaited the arrival of the superintendent, a short, elderly, thick-set man in a dark suit, who spoke sharply to his officer, listened to the doctor’s opinion, and then proceeded to make a methodical examination for himself.
He held the lantern to the dead man’s face, and looked for some moments into his features.
“No. He’s a perfect stranger to me,” the officer declared. “Was there nothing in his pockets?”
“Only some money, sir—a shillin’ or two,” answered the village policeman.
“On tramp, no doubt,” and he examined the palms of both hands, feeling them with his fingers. “Not used to hard work—clean-shaven, too—done it to disguise himself probably. No razor?”
“No, sir.”