“Then whoever killed him took good care to remove every scrap of evidence which might lead to his victim’s identification,” Ellice Winsloe remarked, standing with his eyes fixed steadily upon the dead face.
“That’s what our superintendent thinks. He believes that if we establish who the poor fellow is, that we shall have no difficulty in putting our hand upon the guilty person.”
“But did no one hear the shot?” Winsloe inquired.
“Nobody. The doctor thinks the affair took place late in the afternoon,” answered Booth.
Winsloe pursed his white lips, and turned away. For an instant a haggard, fearsome look crossed his hard countenance—the look of a man haunted by a guilty secret—but a moment later, when Wydcombe turned to join him, his face changed, and he exclaimed lightly,—
“Let’s get out of this. The thing’s a complete mystery, and we must leave it to the police to puzzle it all out. Of course, there’ll be an inquest, and then we may hear something further.”
“At present the affair is a complete enigma,” Jack remarked. Then, bending again towards the dead man’s face, he added, “Do you know, Ellice, I can’t help thinking that I’ve seen him before somewhere, but where, I can’t for the life of me recollect.”
I saw that Winsloe started, and he turned again. “I don’t recognise him in the least,” he said quickly. “A face is always altered by death. He now resembles, perhaps, somebody you’ve known.”
“Ah, perhaps so,” remarked the young viscount. “Yet I certainly have a faint impression of having seen him somewhere before—or somebody very like him.”
“I hope your lordship will try and remember,” urged the village constable. “It would be of the greatest assistance to us.”