“I don’t like it,” repeated Hawes obstinately. “I’ve never gone against him in any way. I never suggested that he was guilty—even when he accused himself I said it seemed most incomprehensible. If I’ve had suspicions of anybody it’s been of Archer—never of him. Archer is a totally different proposition—a godless irreligious ruffian. A drunken blackguard.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh?” I said. “After all, we really know very little about the man.”
“A poacher, in and out of prison, capable of anything.”
“Do you really think he shot Colonel Protheroe?” I asked curiously.
Hawes has an inveterate dislike of answering yes or no. I have noticed it several times lately.
“Don’t you think yourself, sir, that it’s the only possible solution?”
“As far as we know,” I said, “there’s no evidence of any kind against him.”
“His threats,” said Hawes eagerly. “You forget about his threats.”
“I am sick and tired of hearing about Archer’s threats. As far as I can make out, there is no direct evidence that he ever made any.”
“He was determined to be revenged on Colonel Protheroe. He primed himself with drink and then shot him.”
“That’s pure supposition.”
“But you will admit that it’s perfectly probable?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Possible, then?”
“Possible, yes.”