“Have you heard the news, sir?” he gasped. “At the Cunningham’s sir!”
“Burglary!” cried the Colonel, with his coffee-cup in mid-air.
“Murder!”
The Colonel whistled. “By Jove!” said he. “Who’s killed, then? The J.P. or his son?”
“Neither, sir. It was William the coachman. Shot through the heart, sir, and never spoke again.”
“Who shot him, then?”
“The burglar, sir. He was off like a shot and got clean away. He’d just broke in at the pantry window when William came on him and met his end in saving his master’s property.”
“What time?”
“It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve.”
“Ah, then, we’ll step over afterwards,” said the Colonel, coolly settling down to his breakfast again. “It’s a baddish business,” he added when the butler had gone; “he’s our leading man about here, is old Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too. He’ll be cut up over this, for the man has been in his service for years and was a good servant. It’s evidently the same villains who broke into Acton’s.”
“And stole that very singular collection,” said Holmes, thoughtfully.
“Precisely.”
“Hum! It may prove the simplest matter in the world, but all the same at first glance this is just a little curious, is it not? A gang of burglars acting in the country might be expected to vary the scene of their operations, and not to crack two cribs in the same district within a few days. When you spoke last night of taking precautions I remember that it passed through my mind that this was probably the last parish in England to which the thief or thieves would be likely to turn their attention—which shows that I have still much to learn.”