“So I found,” said the poacher brazenly. “Now—that ’ere wood, t’other side o’ the water. Sometimes there’s a goodish few—sparrers, we’ll say—to be found there, and it wouldn’t ha’ been the first time as I’d borrowed one o’ they canoes and slipped over for an hour or so. O’ course I returned the canoe when I’d finished. I ain’t no thief—thank Gawd!” The others grinned at him, but were silent. It was best for the man to tell his story in his own way. “It was between half-past twelve and one as I got down to the quay—I allus reckons to know the time within a few minutes—’tis a habit o’ mine. There was no one about and ’twas a still night. There was a light on board that ’ere little yacht where the murder was, but I didn’t hear any sound. I was a-standin’ on the quay, a-makin’ up my mind whether ’twas worth while crossing over, when I heard the sound of a boat bein’ pulled across—from the other side.” “From the _other_ side?” asked Colson. “That’s right. I wondered what anyone was a-doin’ that time o’ night—when respectable folk ought to be abed and asleep.” He grinned. “I can see pretty well in the dark—I _has_ to in my perfession—so I jist lay low and watched. Whoever it was, he warn’t no boatman, by the way he mucked that ’ere boat about. The tide was flowin’ in and he had to pull hard. When he got across he made straight for that ’ere yacht where the lights was burnin’. Clumsy, he was, too. He didn’t ’arf bump the nose o’ his boat into the yacht when he got to her. You could hear the bang all over the place.” “What did he do then?” “Why, Major, he got aboard the yacht and went in the cabin. I see him quite plainly. But he never stayed there long. In less than five minutes he was out again, clamberin’ into the boat, and pullin’ away across stream as hard as ever he could go. Seemed in a mighty hurry, he did. Just then I heard the Cathedral clock strike one.” “What did you do?” “I lit a pipe and waited a bit—quarter of an hour or less, I reckon. I was thinkin’ it wouldn’t do to cross over to the wood that night. And then the motor-car come along.” “The motor-car!” ejaculated the superintendent. “Yes, sir—come down the road.” “To the quay?” “No, sir. It stopped about thirty or forty yards before it got to the quay. I could see the lights.” “Did you see who was in it?” “No, sir; I made tracks along the shore. Thinks I, ‘There’s too many folks about to-night for an honest chap to get a livin’,’ so I come straight home. And that’s all about it.” They questioned him sharply, but he stuck to his story. Then the superintendent said: “You’ll probably have to tell all this to the jury—at the adjourned inquest.” “It won’t get me into no trouble?” asked Thatcher. “No,” said the superintendent. “We’ll see to that.” “Because,” went on the man as he rose to go, “I’ve got my reputation to think of.” “We know all about that. And look here, Thatcher, keep your mouth shut,” said the superintendent.