“I was late in getting here—had not allowed enough time. Consequently I stopped the car, climbed over the wall and ran across the park. When I arrived on the terrace, the whole house was dark and silent. I was just turning away when I heard a shot. I fancied that it came from inside the house, and I ran back, crossed the terrace, and tried the windows. But they were fastened, and there was no sound of any kind from inside the house. I waited a while, but the whole place was still as the grave, so I made up my mind that I had made a mistake, and that what I had heard was a stray poacher—quite a natural conclusion to come to under the circumstances, I think.”
“Quite natural,” said Superintendent Battle expressionlessly.
“I went on to the inn, put up as I said—and heard the news this morning. I realized, of course, that I was a suspicious character—bound to be under the circumstances, and came up here to tell my story, hoping it wasn’t going to be handcuffs for one.”
There was a pause. Colonel Melrose looked sideways at Superintendent Battle.
“I think the story seems clear enough,” he remarked.
“Yes,” said Battle. “I don’t think we’ll be handing out any handcuffs this morning.”
“Any questions, Battle?”
“There’s one thing I’d like to know. What was this manuscript?”
He looked across at George, and the latter replied with a trace of unwillingness:
“The memoirs of the late Count Stylptitch. You see—”
“You needn’t say anything more,” said Battle. “I see perfectly.”