“No, I think he must have got round to the back of the house. The bushes run practically from the west wing of Fossaway Manor to the end of the Mound. He might, of course, be still hidden in the bushes, but the probability is that he made his escape as soon as he saw you fall,” said Dick. “I think we’d better go inside and I will find you a pair of shoes, unless you have a spare supply.”

They were halfway to the house when they met Lord Chelford.

“Who was that shooting?” he asked irritably. “Dick, I told you that I did not want rabbit shooting or any other kind of shooting within half a mile of the house. It gets on my nerves terribly. Really, I think, you must show a little more consideration.”

The girl had opened her lips to explain when Dick caught her eye, and with splendid mendacity she invented a hurried but effective excuse.

“My fault, Harry. I saw a stoat, and I hate stoats.” The fact that they had not so much as an air-gun between the three of them was unnoticed by Harry.

“Well, of course.” He was obviously taken aback by her championship. “If that’s the case it can’t be helped. Only in future, Dick, old boy–”

He walked rapidly back to the house.

“Why shouldn’t he be told?” asked Leslie; then, realising the foolishness of the question, she was all penitence. “There is no reason why he should be, of course. I was silly to suggest it. But, Dick, who did such a terrible thing? It couldn’t have been an accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident: of that I can assure you,” said Mr Puttler, nursing his injury. “The first two shots that were fired hit the tree within three inches of one another. Are you going to notify the local police, Mr Alford?”

Dick thought for a moment, then decided against that course, and to Leslie’s surprise the detective approved.

“I think you’re right,” said Puttler. “Where is the nearest rifle range?”

“About fifteen miles away,” said Dick sardonically. “You needn’t follow that line of thought.”

“I’m not following any line of thought,” said the detective. “I’m only foreseeing possible alibis. I spend my life standing in front of alibis and waving a red flag.”

Through the tan, Dick’s face was grey. He seemed suddenly to have gone old, and Leslie looked at him anxiously.

“Dick, at whom were they shooting?”

“I don’t know that they were shooting at anybody,” he said wearily. “They just loosed off a few rounds to scare us.”

And then he laughed; it was a fierce, hard little laugh, and she winced at the sound of it.

“I am thinking of Harry and his nerves, and the stoat and every damned ridiculous – I beg your pardon, Leslie; I’m afraid I’m getting rattled.”

She smiled at this.