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.
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