“He didn’t encourage it at one time, but this year he got rather keen about it.  There’s really nowhere else to play.  Personally I hate the game.  He wasn’t very keen on bowls, you know, but he liked calling it the bowling-green, and surprising his visitors with it.”

Antony laughed.

“I love you on Mark,” he said.  “You’re priceless.”

He began to feel in his pockets for his pipe and tobacco, and then suddenly stopped and stiffened to attention.  For a moment he stood listening, with his head on one side, holding up a finger to bid Bill listen too.

“What is it?” whispered Bill.

Antony waved him to silence, and remained listening.  Very quietly he went down on his knees, and listened again.  Then he put his ear to the floor.  He got up and dusted himself quickly, walked across to Bill and whispered in his ear: 

“Footsteps.  Somebody coming.  When I begin to talk, back me up.”

Bill nodded.  Antony gave him an encouraging pat on the back, and stepped firmly across to the box of bowls, whistling loudly to himself.  He took the bowls out, dropped one with a loud bang on the floor, said, “Oh, Lord!” and went on: 

“I say, Bill, I don’t think I want to play bowls, after all.”

“Well, why did you say you did?” grumbled Bill.

Antony flashed a smile of appreciation at him.

“Well, I wanted to when I said I did, and now I don’t want to.”

“Then what do you want to do?”

“Talk.”

“Oh, right-o!” said Bill eagerly.

“There’s a seat on the lawn I saw it.  Let’s bring these things along in case we want to play, after all.”

“Right-o!” said Bill again.  He felt safe with that, not wishing to commit himself until he knew what he was wanted to say.

As they went across the lawn, Antony dropped the bowls and took out his pipe.

“Got a match?” he said loudly.

As he bent his head over the match, he whispered, “There’ll be somebody listening to us.  You take the Cayley view,” and then went on in his ordinary voice, “I don’t think much of your matches, Bill,” and struck another.  They walked over to the seat and sat down.

“What a heavenly night!” said Antony.

“Ripping.”

“I wonder where that poor devil Mark is now.”

“It’s a rum business.”

“You agree with Cayley that it was an accident?”

“Yes.  You see, I know Mark.”

“H’m.”  Antony produced a pencil and a piece of paper and began to write on his knee, but while he wrote, he talked.  He said that he thought Mark had shot his brother in a fit of anger, and that Cayley knew, or anyhow guessed, this and had tried to give his cousin a chance of getting away.

“Mind you, I think he’s right.  I think it’s what any of us would do.  I shan’t give it away, of course, but somehow there are one or two little things which make me think that Mark really did shoot his brother I mean other than accidentally.”