"The place where the poor fellow was killed," said Fisher, sadly.

"What do you mean?" demanded March.

"He was smashed up on the rocks a mile and a half from here."

"No, he wasn't," replied Fisher. "He didn't fall on the rocks at
all. Didn't you notice that he only fell on the slope of soft grass
underneath? But I saw that he had a bullet in him already."

Then after a pause he added:

"He was alive at the inn, but he was dead long before he came to the
rocks. So he was shot as he drove his car down this strip of
straight road, and I should think somewhere about here. After that,
of course, the car went straight on with nobody to stop or turn it.
It's really a very cunning dodge in its way; for the body would be
found far away, and most people would say, as you do, that it was an
accident to a motorist. The murderer must have been a clever brute."

"But wouldn't the shot be heard at the inn or somewhere?" asked
March.

"It would be heard. But it would not be noticed. That," continued
the investigator, "is where he was clever again. Shooting was going
on all over the place all day; very likely he timed his shot so as
to drown it in a number of others. Certainly he was a first-class
criminal. And he was something else as well."

"What do you mean?" asked his companion, with a creepy premonition