"Mr. Fenley was shot dead on his own doorstep," continued Eliza. She gave proper emphasis to the concluding words. That a man should be murdered "on his own doorstep" was a feature of the crime that enhanced the tragedy in the public mind. The shooting was bad enough in itself, for rural England is happily free from such horrors; but swift and brutal death dealt out on one's own doorstep was a thing at once monstrous and awe-compelling. Eliza, perhaps, wondered why Mr. Trenholme flushed, but she fully understood the sudden blanching of his face at her tidings, for all Roxton was shaken to its foundations when the facts slowly percolated in that direction. "Good Lord!" cried he. "Could that be the shot I heard?" "He was killed at half past nine, sir." "Then it was! A keeper heard it, too--and a policeman--our Roxton policeman." "That would be Farrow," said Eliza. "What was _he_ doin', the lazy-bones, that he couldn't catch the villain?" "What villain?" "The man who killed poor Mr. Fenley." "They know who did it, then?" "Well, no. There's all sorts o' tales flyin' about, but you can't believe any of 'em." "But why are you blaming Farrow? He's a good fellow. He sings. No real scoundrel can sing. Read any novel, any newspaper report. 'The prisoner's voice was harsh and unmusical.' You've seen those words scores of times." In his relief at learning that his own escapade was not published broadcast, Trenholme had momentarily forgotten the dreadful nature of Eliza's statement. She followed him into the dining-room. "You'll be a witness, I suppose," she said, anxious to secure details of the shot-firing. "A witness!" he repeated blankly. "Yes, sir. There can't be a deal o' folk who heard the gun go off." "By Jove, Eliza, I believe you're right," he said, gazing at her in dismay. "Now that I come to think of it, I am probably the only person in existence who can say where that shot came from. It was a rifle, too. I spoke of it to the keeper and Farrow." "I was sure something would happen when I dreamed of suffrigettes this mornin'. An' that comes of playin' pranks, Mr. Trenholme. If it wasn't for that alarm clock----" "Oh, come, Eliza," he broke in. "An alarm clock isn't a Gatling gun. Your association of ideas is faulty. There is much in common between the clatter of an alarm clock and the suffragist cause, but all the ladies promised not to endanger life, you know." "Anyhow, Mr. Fenley is dead as a doornail," said Eliza firmly. "Too bad. I take back all the hard things I said about him, and I'm sure you do the same." "Me!" "Yes. Didn't you say all the Fenleys were rubbish? One of them, at any rate, was wrongly classified." "Which one?" Trenholme bethought himself in time. "This unfortunate banker, of course," he said. "I'd a notion you meant Miss Sylvia. She's pretty as a picter--prettier than some picters I've seen--and folk speak well of her. But she's not a Fenley."