“So,” said Pembroke, “instead of proving that the blow did kill Hackett, the jury will want it proved that it didn’t kill Hackett.” “Exactly.” “Hackett, I understand, was a convivial soul. It can be proved that he mounted his horse, rode home, and six hours afterward was walking about. It never seemed to occur to these country doctors to look for any other injury than the bruise on the head, when they found him as good as dead next morning. I hear, though, that people who passed his house at night would often hear shouting and carousing. Now, who did that shouting and carousing? Not the gentlemen in the county, certainly, nor anybody else that I can find out. This fits in with your account of his associating with deserters. I have always had a theory that he received an injury that killed him between the time he was seen alive and apparently well, and when he was found dying in his bed.” “That is precisely what I think--and I have a witness, a ragged boy, hereabouts, whom I have tried to keep respectable, who heard a great noise as of men shouting and drinking at Hackett’s house the night of Hackett’s death. The boy was cold and hungry, and although he knew he would be driven away if caught--for Hackett was a hard-hearted villain--yet he sneaked up to the house and gazed through the half-drawn curtains at the men sitting around the table, fascinated as he says by the sight of fire and food. He heard Hackett singing and laughing, and he saw the faces, and--mark you,--knows the names of those low fellows, who have never been suspected, and who have kept so remarkably quiet. Then, here is the point--one of the very men who deserted from my company, and was very thick afterward with Hackett, suddenly disappeared, and within a month died of injuries he could give no account of. You may depend upon it they had a fight, and it was my former companion in arms that killed the worthy Hackett--not poor Bob Henry’s blow.” Pembroke’s dark eyes shone. “We’ll keep this to ourselves, and make the fellow hold his tongue. We won’t give the deserters a chance to concoct a plausible lie. They will be certain to be at the court house when the trial comes off, and when I put them in the witness box unprepared--you will see.” They talked over the case a half an hour longer before Pembroke got up to go. Then he said: “Are you going to call at The Beeches? You must have known Eliza Koller before she left here.” “Know her,” cried Cave, “yes, I know her. I hope she has improved in every other way as much as she has in looks. I saw her the other day. It seemed to me that her hair was not so violently yellow when she went away; however, I’ll be cautious,--I see you are badly singed. Little Olivia Berkeley wouldn’t do for my lord--” Pembroke got up and flung off in a passion, pursued by Cave shouting: “I’ll give long odds on the widow!” CHAPTER V.