faith in his brother came to
his aid, and he broke off indignantly: "it is monstrous, perfectly
monstrous, Mr. Henderson. I suppose it is Faulkner, and it is because of
that wretched smuggling business that suspicions fall on him, as if
there were not a hundred others who owe the man a much deeper grudge
than my brother did; indeed he had no animosity against him at all, for
Julian got the best of it altogether, and Faulkner has been hissed and
hooted every time he has been in the town since. If there was any
ill-feeling left over that matter, it would be on his part and not on
Julian's. Who signed the warrant? Faulkner himself?"
"No; it is signed by the Colonel and Mr. Harrington. They took the dying
deposition of Mr. Faulkner. There is no harm in my telling you that,
because it must be generally known when your brother is brought up, but
till then please do not let it go further. He has sworn that he overtook
Mr. Wyatt two or three hundred yards before he got to his own gate.
There was an altercation between them, and he swears that your brother
used threats. He had a double-barrelled gun in his hand, and as Faulkner
was riding up the drive to the house he was fired at from the trees on
his left, and fell from his horse. Almost directly afterwards Mr. Wyatt
ran out from the spot where the gun had been fired. Thinking he would
finish him if he thought he was still alive, Mr. Faulkner closed his
eyes and held his breath. Your brother came up and stood over him, and
having satisfied himself that he was dead, ran off through the trees
again."
"I believe it is a lie from beginning to end," Frank said passionately.
"Julian has brought him into disgrace here, and the fellow invented this
charge out of revenge. If it had been in the road, and Faulkner had
struck Julian as he did before, and Julian had had his loaded gun in his
hand, I don't say but that in his passion he might have shot him; still,
I don't believe he would, even then. Julian is one of the best-tempered
fellows in the world; still, I would admit that, in the heat of the
moment, he might raise his gun and fire, but to say that he loaded his
gun after Faulkner had gone on—for I am sure it was empty as he came
along, as I have never known him to bring home his gun loaded—and that
he then went and hid behind a tree and shot a man down. Why, I would not
believe it if fifty honest men swore to it, much less on the oath of a
fellow like Faulkner."
"I can't say anything about that, Mr. Wyatt; I have only my duty to do."
"Yes, I understand that, Mr. Henderson. Of course he must be arrested,
but I am sure no one will believe the accusation for a minute. Oh!" he
exclaimed, as a fresh idea struck him, "what was Faulkner shot with?"
"It is a bullet wound."
"Well, that is quite enough," Frank exclaimed triumphantly. "Julian had
his double-barrelled gun with him, and had been rabbit-shooting; and if
it had been he who fired it would have been with a charge of shot. You
don't suppose he went about with a bullet in his pocket to use in case
he happened to meet Faulkner, and have another row with him. Julian
never fired a bullet in his life, as far as I know. There is not such a
thing as a bullet-mould in the house."
The officer's look of gravity relaxed. "That is important, certainly,"
he said, "very important. I own that after hearing the deposition read
it did seem to me that, as the result of this unfortunate quarrel, your
brother might have been so goaded by something Mr. Faulkner said or did,
that he had hastily loaded his gun, and in his passion run across the
wood and shot him down. But now it is clear, from what you say, that it
is most improbable he would have a bullet about him, and unless it can
be proved that he obtained one from a gunmaker or otherwise, it is a
very strong point in his favour. I suppose your brother has not returned
this afternoon?"
"No. I asked the servant, when I got home at three, whether he had
returned, though I did not expect him back
his aid, and he broke off indignantly: "it is monstrous, perfectly
monstrous, Mr. Henderson. I suppose it is Faulkner, and it is because of
that wretched smuggling business that suspicions fall on him, as if
there were not a hundred others who owe the man a much deeper grudge
than my brother did; indeed he had no animosity against him at all, for
Julian got the best of it altogether, and Faulkner has been hissed and
hooted every time he has been in the town since. If there was any
ill-feeling left over that matter, it would be on his part and not on
Julian's. Who signed the warrant? Faulkner himself?"
"No; it is signed by the Colonel and Mr. Harrington. They took the dying
deposition of Mr. Faulkner. There is no harm in my telling you that,
because it must be generally known when your brother is brought up, but
till then please do not let it go further. He has sworn that he overtook
Mr. Wyatt two or three hundred yards before he got to his own gate.
There was an altercation between them, and he swears that your brother
used threats. He had a double-barrelled gun in his hand, and as Faulkner
was riding up the drive to the house he was fired at from the trees on
his left, and fell from his horse. Almost directly afterwards Mr. Wyatt
ran out from the spot where the gun had been fired. Thinking he would
finish him if he thought he was still alive, Mr. Faulkner closed his
eyes and held his breath. Your brother came up and stood over him, and
having satisfied himself that he was dead, ran off through the trees
again."
"I believe it is a lie from beginning to end," Frank said passionately.
"Julian has brought him into disgrace here, and the fellow invented this
charge out of revenge. If it had been in the road, and Faulkner had
struck Julian as he did before, and Julian had had his loaded gun in his
hand, I don't say but that in his passion he might have shot him; still,
I don't believe he would, even then. Julian is one of the best-tempered
fellows in the world; still, I would admit that, in the heat of the
moment, he might raise his gun and fire, but to say that he loaded his
gun after Faulkner had gone on—for I am sure it was empty as he came
along, as I have never known him to bring home his gun loaded—and that
he then went and hid behind a tree and shot a man down. Why, I would not
believe it if fifty honest men swore to it, much less on the oath of a
fellow like Faulkner."
"I can't say anything about that, Mr. Wyatt; I have only my duty to do."
"Yes, I understand that, Mr. Henderson. Of course he must be arrested,
but I am sure no one will believe the accusation for a minute. Oh!" he
exclaimed, as a fresh idea struck him, "what was Faulkner shot with?"
"It is a bullet wound."
"Well, that is quite enough," Frank exclaimed triumphantly. "Julian had
his double-barrelled gun with him, and had been rabbit-shooting; and if
it had been he who fired it would have been with a charge of shot. You
don't suppose he went about with a bullet in his pocket to use in case
he happened to meet Faulkner, and have another row with him. Julian
never fired a bullet in his life, as far as I know. There is not such a
thing as a bullet-mould in the house."
The officer's look of gravity relaxed. "That is important, certainly,"
he said, "very important. I own that after hearing the deposition read
it did seem to me that, as the result of this unfortunate quarrel, your
brother might have been so goaded by something Mr. Faulkner said or did,
that he had hastily loaded his gun, and in his passion run across the
wood and shot him down. But now it is clear, from what you say, that it
is most improbable he would have a bullet about him, and unless it can
be proved that he obtained one from a gunmaker or otherwise, it is a
very strong point in his favour. I suppose your brother has not returned
this afternoon?"
"No. I asked the servant, when I got home at three, whether he had
returned, though I did not expect him back
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