“Then, as Roger fell, Ernest recognised that he’d blundered. He’d killed the wrong man; and the Hackleton business wouldn’t serve to complicate this case. I expect he got flustered—and no great wonder. I suppose he dropped the darts, his glasses fell off, and altogether he was in a pretty state of confusion. And there was still Neville to finish off. “At that moment, he’d no idea that the Maze wasn’t empty except for Neville in the other centre. So he abandoned his darts after grabbing three from the ground; and he went off to kill his other brother before anything more happened. Bear in mind that speed was everything to him, and you’ll get some idea of the flurry he must have been in. I expect he meant to come back for the spilt darts and the tin as soon as he’d finished Neville. “We know from the evidence of Torrance and Miss Forrest that the first murder passed unnoticed so far as they were concerned. They didn’t even pay any attention to the reports of the air-gun in Roger’s case. Considering the queer acoustics of the Maze, there’s nothing wonderful in that. But I think it’s likely enough that Neville Shandon had heard something; and Ernest just got him as he was standing up and wondering if he shouldn’t hunt about for the cause of the funny noise he had heard. “Whatever the details were, Ernest got him all right; but he shot him in the body and Neville was able to give a yell or two before he collapsed. That accounts for the cries that Miss Forrest heard and also for the air-gun noises. And with that, friend Ernest’s little troubles suddenly increased; for he heard voices in the Maze as these two called to each other, and he must have known he was up against it.” Sir Clinton’s voice became grave. “It was a bit of sheer luck that he came across neither of those two on his way out. He’d have shot them without any hesitation if he could. My reading of it is that he was hindered in two ways. First, he’d used up all his darts and daren’t waste time and risk detection by going back for those that he’d spilt. Secondly, he was losing time—and time was the essence of his alibi. So he dodged about, no doubt suffering agonies of terror, and at last he got out of the Maze safely, undetected. He pitched his gun into the water at once and went for his bicycle. In lifting it, he scraped the tree with the brake-handle, I think. He wouldn’t be in a state to do things cautiously. That was the mark Wendover noticed. He carried his bicycle across the grass so as not to leave the track of crushed stems that he’d have made if he’d wheeled it. And then, once on the road, he mounted—and his trail stopped, so far as the dog was concerned.