He strode out amidst a chorus of farewells, but stopped in the hall, pulled up by a tap on his arm, and turned to find Blick at his elbow. “A word with you,” said Blick. “Come in here.” He led Carver into his sitting-room, and closed the door. “You know what I am, Carver?” he went on in a low voice. “A detective! Very well—now, I heard what you said in there. Is it true that you’ve seen Mrs. Braxfield shooting at things with a pistol—early of a morning?” “True enough, master,” replied Carver. “I seen her do that more than once. Been working up in they woods all this winter and spring, I have, and gone to my work uncommon early since the mornings got light. I seen Mistress Braxfield out about her house now and again, taking a pop at they foxes—there’s a wealth o’ them varmints up there, and I did hear her say as they was allays at her chickens. Oh, aye, I seen her wi’ her pistol!” “You didn’t see her last Tuesday morning?—the morning Mr. Guy was shot?” “I didn’t, master, ’cause I wasn’t in them parts at all, that day—I was over t’other side of Greycloister, two miles off.” He paused, regarding the detective with knowing eyes. “Don’t want to make no trouble, master,” he went on, suddenly, “but I could ha’ said a deal more in there than what I did say!” “What?” demanded Blick. “If you know anything, tell it!” “Don’t know anything partic’lar,” said Carver. “But I said, in there—accidental! Nor, there is them in the village what says—on purpose!” “Do you mean that there are people in Markenmore who are saying that Mrs. Braxfield meant to shoot Mr. Guy?” asked Blick. “Is that it?” “That’s it, master!” replied Carver. “They are saying it, some of ’em, round about where I lives—on one Mitbourne road. But only since it come out that Mistress Braxfield’s lass—young Poppy—be wed to Master Harry. When that comes out, the folk began to talk same as I do tell ’ee. ‘Ah!’ says they. ‘That be the true colour of it! Her shooted Master Guy so’s his poor brother could be Sir Harry and that young damsel be my Lady Markenmore! So ’tis,’ says they; ‘ain’t no doubt on ’t.’ But you’ll bear in mind, master, as how I don’t say that. I do say her, very like, shooted he accidental.” Blick paid no attention to Carver’s personal opinion; he was thinking of the common gossip. “Are many of them saying that?” he asked. “Your neighbours, I mean?” “All on ’ems a-saying of it!” declared Carver. “Down our way, you understand—far end o’ the village. Them here chaps what you sees i’ th’ bar there, they belong to this end o’ the place—us don’t know what they’m thinking. But down along wi’ us, that be the general talk—her shooted Master Guy so’s Master Harry ’ud be Sir Harry, and the young gel’ ud be my lady! See, master?” He paused again—and again gave the detective a shrewd, knowing look. “Her’s a sharp, spry female, Mistress Braxfield!” he continued suddenly. “I could tell ’ee more nor that, only I ain’t one for to get nobody into trouble. But so I could!”