"What are you saying, Jones?" cried the station-master, staring at his
subordinate, and perhaps wondering whether he had already that morning
paid a visit to the tap of the Elster Arms.

"I'm saying nothing that half the place didn't say at the time, Mr.
Markham. _You_ hadn't come here then, Mr. Elster--he was the Honourable
George--went out one night with the keepers when warm work was expected,
and got shot for his pains. He lived some weeks, but they couldn't cure
him. It was in the late lord's time. _He_ died soon after, and the place
has been deserted ever since."

"And who do you suppose fired the shot?"

"Don't know that it 'ud be safe to say," rejoined the man. "He might give
my neck a twist some dark night if he heard on't. He's the blackest sheep
we've got in Calne, sir."

"I suppose you mean Pike," said the station-master. "He has the character
for being that, I believe. I've seen no harm in the man myself."

"Well, it was Pike," said the porter. "That is, some of us suspected him.
And that's how Mr. George Elster came by his death. And this one, Mr.
Percival, shot up into notice, as being the only one left, except Lord
Elster."

"And who's Lord Elster?" asked the station-master, not remembering to
have heard the title before.

Mr. Jones received the question with proper contempt. Having been