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I felt in my pocket for my vestas, but unfortunately my box was empty.
Yet just at that moment my strained ears caught a sound--the sound of
someone moving stealthily among the fallen leaves. Seizing my gun, I
demanded who was there.
There was, however, no response. The instant I spoke the movement
ceased.
As far as I could judge, the person in concealment was within the wood
about ten yards from me, separated by an impenetrable thicket. As,
however, I stood out against the sky, my silhouette was, I knew, a
well-defined mark for anyone with fire-arms.
It seemed evident that a tragedy had occurred, and that the victim at my
feet was a woman. But whom?
Of a sudden, while I stood hesitating, blaming myself for being without
matches, I heard the movement repeated. Someone was quickly
receding--escaping from the spot. I listened again. The sound was not
of the rustling of leaves or the crackling of dried sticks, but the low
thuds of a man's feet racing over softer ground. He had scaled the rough
stone dyke and was out in the turnip-field adjacent.


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