Roger finished up the remains of his beer and put the tankard down on the counter with a businesslike air.
“Well, Alec,” he said briskly. “Time we were getting along if we’re ever to get back to Elchester today.”
“You really are rather marvellous, you know, Roger,” Alec observed, as they set out along the road once more.
“I know I am,” Roger said candidly. “But why particularly?”
“Carrying on a chat with the landlord like that. I couldn’t have done it to save my life. I shouldn’t know what to say.”
“I suppose it comes naturally,” Roger replied complacently. “I’m a bit of what our American friends call a mixer. As a matter of fact, I thoroughly enjoy a yap with somebody like that; friend William, for instance. And it all comes in useful, you know; local colour and so on. But what about the information I was able to extract, eh?”
“Yes, we got a few more details, didn’t we?”
“Highly important ones, too. What do you make of Master Prince showing on his own account at Elchester? That puts him in rather an independent position, doesn’t it? And he wasn’t back till late last night, you see. It all tallies.”
“Yes, we seem to be on the right track this time.”
“Of course we’re on the right track. How could we be anything else? The evidence is overwhelming. As a matter of fact,” Roger added thoughtfully, “I believe I can make a pretty good guess as to what actually happened last night.”
“Oh? What?”
“Why, friend Prince, naturally somewhat elated at winning a prize at the show, got drinking with some of the new pals he must have picked up here and had a couple of drops too much. On his way back he passes Layton Court and either rattles the side door and notices it ajar; in any case, walks in and up to the French windows, which are open. Stanworth, who we know was mortally afraid of him, jumps at his appearance and threatens him with a revolver. In the struggle, Stanworth is shot, either on purpose or accidentally. That sobers friend Prince up more than a little, and, with the cunning we know him to possess, he sets the stage for us to find the next morning. How’s that?”
“It’s quite possible,” Alec admitted. “But what I want to know is—how are we going to tackle Prince now?”
“Wait and see what happens. I shall get into conversation with him and try to get him to account for his movements last night. If he gets obstreperous, we shall simply have to lay him out; that’s all. You’ll come in useful there, by the way.”
“Humph!” Alec observed.
“In any case,” Roger concluded enthusiastically, “it’s going to be dashed exciting. You can take my word for that.”
There was no mistaking Hillcrest Farm. It lay on the top of a sharp rise just as the landlord had described it. The two instinctively slackened their steps as they approached, as if unconsciously reconnoitring the scene of battle.
“I don’t want to enlist Wetherby just yet,” Roger murmured. “I think we ought to try and tackle him ourselves. And we don’t want to give the alarm in any case, or arouse any suspicions. That’s why I didn’t put hundreds more questions to that landlord. What do you think?”
“Oh, absolutely. What about asking that old chap if he knows where Prince is?”
“Yes, I will.” Roger strolled over towards the spot where an ancient rustic was clipping one of Mr. Wetherby’s hedges. “I want to speak to Mr. Prince,” he confided to the ancient. “Can you tell me where I shall find him?”
“Sir?” queried the other, curving a large and horny hand round an equally large and horny ear.
“I want to speak to Mr. Prince,” Roger repeated loudly. “Where is he?”
The ancient did not move. “Sir?” he remarked stolidly.
“Prince!” bawled Roger. “Where?”
“Oh, Prince! ’E’s in the next field alongside. Up ’tother end I seed ’im last, not above five minutes back.”
The horny palm ceased to function as an ear-trumpet and became a receptacle for a spare shilling of Roger’s, and the two moved on. In the side of the next field was set a sturdy gate. Roger swung himself easily over it, the light of battle in his eyes. Alec followed suit, and they advanced together up the centre of the field.
“I can’t see anyone here, can you?” Roger remarked, when they had gone some little distance. “Perhaps he’s gone somewhere else.”
“Nothing but a cow in that corner. Is there any other way out of the field? He didn’t get over that gate into the road within the last five minutes. We should have seen him.”
Roger halted and gazed round carefully. “Yes, there’s a⸺ Hullo! What’s the matter with that cow? She seems very interested in us.”
The cow, a large, powerful-looking animal, had indeed quitted its corner and was advancing purposefully in their direction. Its head was swaying curiously from side to side and it was emitting a noise not unlike the hoot of a steamer.
“My God!” Alec shouted suddenly. “That isn’t a cow; it’s a bull! Run like hell!”
Roger needed no second invitation; he set off at top speed in the wake of the flying Alec. The bull, observing this disappointing procedure, thundered after them. It was an exciting race while it lasted.
The result, some six seconds later, was as follows:
A. Grierson
R. Sheringham
Bull.
Distance between first and second, ten yards; between second and third, one five-barred gate (taken by the second in his stride).
“ ’Strewth!” Roger observed with feeling, and collapsed incontinently into a ditch.
A hoarse and grating noise caused them to look up. The noise emanated from the ancient. He was laughing.
“Nearly ’ad you that time, gents,” he croaked joyfully. “Ain’t seen him go fer anyone like that not since he went fer that Mr. Stanfoerth, or whatever ’e calls ’isself—’im from Layton Court. I ought to ’ave warned ’ee. You want ter be very careful o’ that there Prince John.”
