They say that, as a rule, the most
grotesquely unimportant trifles flash into the mind
and engage the last thoughts of a drowning man.
Regarding this in the light of an analogy, something
of the same sort was now happening to Helen Thurwell.
With her mind steeped in the horror
of the last few hours, she yet found that she was
able afterwards to recall every slight particular with
regard to this man’s appearance, and even his
dress. She remembered the firm evenness of his
movements, swift, yet free from all ungraceful haste;
the extreme shabbiness of his coat, his ill-arranged
neck-tie, escaped from all restraint of collar and
waistcoat, and flying loosely behind him; his trousers
very much turned up, and very much frayed, and the
almost singular height of his loose angular figure.
His face, too she remembered that better
than anything with its pale hollow cheeks
and delicate outline, deep-set dark blue eyes, black
eyebrows, and long, unkempt hair, which would have
looked very much the better for a little trimming.
A man utterly regardless of his appearance, untidy,
almost slovenly in his attire, yet with something about
him different from other men.
He was within a few yards of her when
she saw a sudden change flash into his face as their
eyes met. He hesitated and a faint color came
into his cheeks, only to fade away again immediately,
leaving them whiter than ever. There was something
in his intense gaze which at that time she had no
means of understanding. But it was over in a moment.
He advanced rapidly, and stood by her side.
She still watched him. She could
see that his whole frame was vibrating with strong
internal emotion as he looked downward on the glazed
eyes and motionless form of the murdered man.
His lips were pallid, and his hands were tightly clasped
together. There was one thing which seemed to
her very strange. He had not started, or exhibited
the least sign of surprise at the dreadful sight.
It was almost as though he had known all about it.
“This is a terrible thing,”
she said in a low tone, breaking the silence between
them for the first time. “You have heard
of it, I suppose?”
He dropped down on one knee, and bent
close over the dead man, feeling his heart and pulse.
In that position his face was hidden from her.
“No; I knew nothing. He has been killed like
this?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone see it? Is the man caught?”
“We know nothing,” she
answered. “We found him like this.
There was no one in sight.”
He rose deliberately to his feet.
Her heart was beating fast now, and she looked searchingly
into his face. It told her little. He was
grave, but perfectly composed.
“How is it that you are alone
here?” he asked. “Does no one else
know of this?”
She moved her head in assent.
“Yes; but they have all gone
to hunt for the murderer. If only you had been
looking from your window, you would have seen it all!”
He did not look as though he shared
her regret. He was standing on the other side
of the dead man, with his arms folded and his eyes
fixed steadily upon the cold white face. He seemed
to have forgotten her presence.
“An evil end to an evil life,”
he said slowly to himself, and then he added something
which she did not hear.
“You knew him, then?”
He looked at her for a moment fixedly,
and then down again into the dead man’s face.
“I have heard of him abroad,”
he said. “Sir Geoffrey Kynaston was a man
with a reputation.”
“You will remember that he is
dead,” she said slowly, for the scorn in his
words troubled her.
He bowed his head, and was silent.
Watching him closely, she could see that he was far
more deeply moved than appeared on the surface.
His teeth were set together, and there was a curious
faint flush of color in his livid cheeks. She
followed his eyes, wondering. They were fixed,
not upon the dead man’s face, but on the dagger
which lay buried in his heart, and the handle of which
was still visible.
“That should be a clue,”
he remarked, breaking a short silence.
“Yes. I hope to God that
they will find the wretch!” she answered passionately.
She looked up at him as she spoke.
His eyes were traveling over the moor, and his hand
was shading them.
“There is some one coming,”
he said. “We shall know very soon.”
She followed his rapt gaze, and saw
three men coming toward them. One was her father,
another the underkeeper, and the third was a stranger.