Stenness threw an interrogative glance at Sir Clinton. Getting the answer he expected, he broke the news to Arthur. “What! Both of ’em killed! Nonsense!” Then the sight of the Chief Constable and the recollection of the uniformed man outside seemed to convince him. “Of course! That accounts for the bobby. And they’re both gone, you say? Poor old birds! Poor old birds!” It was hardly the requiem which might have been expected; but it seemed sincere enough in tone if not in words. He added thoughtfully: “And now I’ll never get that apology off my chest, after brooding over it all afternoon. I owed him that.” Sir Clinton crossed the room and picked up the air-gun. “This seems pretty strong. Can you kill anything with it?” Arthur’s grief seemed to pass away with the opening up of a fresh subject. “I was out with it in the spinney this afternoon, potting rabbits. It makes less noise than a rook-rifle. Scares the bunnies less when you fire. But I only got a couple of brace in the whole afternoon.” Sir Clinton made no reply. He tried the spring of the air-gun; looked to see that the weapon was unloaded; and then pulled the trigger. For a weapon of its size the report was not loud. He was about to try it a second time when his ear was caught by a sound of limping footsteps in the passage. Again the door of the room opened, and Sir Clinton hastily put the gun back against the wall. Ernest Shandon shuffled into the room and blinked round the assembled group in dull surprise. “I’ve had a devil of a time,” he said grumpily, “I’ve been walking miles with a nail in my boot.” Stenness stepped into the breach once more and explained the state of affairs. At first, Ernest seemed frankly incredulous. “This must be a joke of yours, Stenness. What I mean to say is, the thing’s impossible. Murders don’t happen to people like us, you know. It’s the kind of thing one finds among the lower classes.” He peered from face to face, as if expecting to see a smile on one of them; but the seriousness of the company at last appeared to bring the truth home to him. “You really mean it?” He sank into a chair and gazed round the company once more as though dazed by the realisation of the tragedy. “Both of ’em? Why, I was talking to them both not three hours ago. We were talking about that Shackleton case—or is it Hackleton? I remember Neville asking if I read the newspapers, and Roger . . . What was it Roger said? . . . Oh, yes, now I remember. Roger was giving Neville a hint that Hackleton might find it worth his while to sandbag him or something like that. I can’t think why; but Roger was very strong about that, I remember. And then I went off and left them together. And now you say they’re both dead! I can’t believe it, Stenness. Why, I was talking to them not three hours ago, or even less, it may be, here in this very room.” “It’s unfortunately true, Mr. Shandon,” Howard Torrance assured him. “I found the body of Mr. Neville Shandon myself.”