Jones, relapsing into sulkiness.
"There's only them two left; t'other died. Wonder if they be coming to
Hartledon again? Calne haven't seemed the same since they left it."
"Which is this one?"
"He can't be anybody but himself," retorted Mr. Jones, irascibly, deeming
the question superfluous. "There be but the two left, I say--the earl and
him; everybody knows him for the Honourable Percival Elster. The other
son, George, died; leastways, was murdered."
"Murdered!" echoed the station-master aghast.
"I don't see that it could be called much else but murder," was Mr.
Jones's answer. "He went out with my lord's gamekeepers one night and
got shot in a poaching fray. 'Twas never known for certain who fired the
shot, but I think I could put my finger on the man if I tried. Much good
_that_ would do, though! There's no proof."
"What are you saying, Jones?" cried the station-master, staring at his
subordinate, and perhaps wondering whether he had already that morning
paid a visit to the tap of the Elster Arms.
"I'm saying nothing that half the place didn't say at the time, Mr.
Markham. _You_ hadn't come here then, Mr. Elster--he was the Honourable
George--went out one night with the keepers when warm work was expected,
and got shot for his pains. He lived some weeks, but they couldn't cure
him. It was in the late lord's time. _He_ died soon after, and the place
has been deserted ever since.
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