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Molyneux, smiling faintly as a specialist smiles at the absurdities of the layman.
    â€œAbsolutely not. That shot was fired from quite a distance. I’ll be able to tell you more after the autopsy. But you can put the idea of suicide out of your head right away. Some careless ass after birds, perhaps, down in the meadows—”
    â€œâ€˜Careless,’” said Sir Henry gravely, “would scarcely be the word, I think. How could such an accident have happened?”
    Dr. Hall shrugged slightly. Man’s carelessness, he seemed to imply, was equal to anything.
    â€œThere’s nothing more I can do here. I’d better go in and have a look at Mrs. Molyneux.”
    â€œWould you ring up the police station at Handleston? Say that I want Superintendent Finister to come out here at once and bring a couple of men with him. I shall wait here till they come. Oh, and Doctor! Ask Denham if he’d mind coming to me out here and bringing his camera and gear with him. Some photographs may be useful later. This tree, for instance.”
    A branch almost sawn through hung limply, swinging a little, towards the grass. It was a long slender branch, about a couple of inches through, and had been sawn through almost to the bark about two feet from the fork of the tree against which the ladder stood. A small pruning-saw lay in the grass below. The stub from which the bough dangled pointed roughly towards the northwest hedge of the orchard, near which stood a little rickety wooden shed known as the lambing-shed. 
    â€œThat ought to give us some idea of how the poor chap was standing, anyway. He was in the act of sawing through that bough when the shot took him, that’s pretty clear.”
    Sir Henry Blundell picked up the pruning-saw and climbed up the ladder, the foot of which pointed towards the orchard entrance gate. When he had gone up about half a dozen rungs he placed the saw at right angles to the half-sawn bough and settled himself comfortably as though to continue the work Robert Molyneux had begun.
    â€œHow’s that?” he called down to Jeanie. His left profile was towards the hay-barn.
    â€œIt looks as if the shot must have come from there,” she said, pointing towards the barns.
    â€œYes,” he agreed, descending. “From almost due south.”
    â€œUnless,” said Jeanie slowly, “he turned his head.”
    â€œYou mean, somebody may have called him, made him turn?”
    â€œPerhaps. Or he might have turned his head or altered his position just because he was tired. Sawing’s a tiring job. One looks around one and takes little rests sometimes.”
    Sir Henry smiled politely, looking with narrowed eyes around the orchard as if he half expected to see the murderer still lurking there. Suddenly with an exclamation he strode towards the lambing-shed, leaving Jeanie to contemplate the apple-tree, the ladder and the bough. A sound broke on her ears as she stood there which she might have taken for distant thunder had it not coincided with a man’s voice uttering adjurations to his horses. It was the hay-wagon rumbling back down the farm-track from the common. In a moment it came into view, piled high with bracken, led by the man whose blue shirt Jeanie had admired a thousand hours ago. Another man rode on the shaft. The wagon turned into the barn with a great clatter.
    â€œWho are those?” asked Sir Henry, returning to Jeanie’s side, looking down the slope towards the wagon turning in at the great hay-barn door.
    â€œTwo of the men carting litter from the common. I saw them before. And I remember now that just before we heard the shot I heard that thundery noise—that noise the wheels of a wagon make. It was the wagon going off empty towards the common, I suppose.”
    â€œLook at this, Miss Halliday. It was lying on the ground just inside the shed there. It’s perfectly dry, in spite of the damp ground and the damp air, and I am