LITMIR.BIZ

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that two Irish reapers, coming from Farmer Matfield’s, five mile beyond St. Cross, stumbled against a man lying in a little streamlet under the trees ——”

      “Under the trees! Where?”

      “In the very place where you parted from this Mr. Wilmot, sir.”

      “Good God! Well?”

      “The man was dead, sir; quite dead. They carried him to the Foresters’ Arms, sir, as that was the nearest place to where they found him; and there’s been a doctor sent for, and a deal of fuss: but the doctor — Mr. Cricklewood, a very respectable gentleman, sir — says that the man had been lying in the water hours and hours, and that the murder had been done hours and hours ago.”

      “The murder!” cried Henry Dunbar; “but he may not have been murdered! His death may have been accidental. He wandered into the water, perhaps.”

      “Oh, no, sir; it’s not that. He wasn’t drowned; for the water where he was found wasn’t three foot deep. He had been strangled, sir; strangled with a running-noose of rope; strangled from behind, sir, for the slip-knot was pulled tight at the back of his neck. Mr. Cricklewood the surgeon’s in the hall below, if you’d like to see him; and he knows all about it. It seems, from what the two Irishmen say, that the body was dragged into the water by the rope. There was the track of where it had been dragged along the grass. I’m sure, sir, I’m very sorry such an awful thing should have happened to the — the person who attended you here.”

      Mr. Dunbar had need of sympathy. His white face was turned towards the landlord’s, fixed in a blank stare. He had not seemed to listen to the man’s account of the crime that had been committed, and yet he had evidently heard everything; for he said presently, in slow, thick accents —

      “Strangled — and the body dragged down — to the water Who — who could — have done it?”

      “Ah! that’s the question, indeed, sir. It must all have been done for the sake of a bit of money, I suppose; for there was an empty pocket-book found by the water’s edge. There are always tramps and such-like about the country at this time of year; and some of them will commit almost any crime for the sake of a few pounds. I remember — ah, as long ago as forty years and more — when I was a bit of a boy in pinafores, there was a gentleman murdered on the Twyford road, and they did say ——”

      But Mr. Dunbar was in no humour to listen to the landlord’s reminiscences. He interrupted the man’s story with a long-drawn sigh —

      “Is there anything I can do? What am I to do?” he said. “Is there anything I can do?”

      “Nothing, sir, until to-morrow. The inquest will be held to-morrow, I suppose.”

      “Yes — yes, to be sure. There’ll be an inquest.”

      “An inquest! Oh, yes, sir; of course there will,” answered the landlord.

      “Remember that I am a stranger to English habits. I don’t know what steps ought to be taken in such a case as this. Should there not be some attempt made to find — the — the murderer?”

      “Yes, sir; I’ve no doubt the constables are on the look-out already. There’ll be every effort made, depend upon it; but I’m really afraid this is a case in which the murderer will escape from justice.”

      “Why so?”

      “Because, you see, sir, the man has had plenty of time to get off; and unless he’s a fool, he must be far away from here by this time, and then what is there to trace him by — that’s to say, unless you could identify the money, or watch and chain, or what not, which the murdered man had about him?”

      Mr. Dunbar shook his head.

      “I don’t even know whether he wore a watch and chain,” he said; “I only met him this morning. I have no idea what money he may have had about him.”

      “Would you like to see the doctor, sir — Mr. Cricklewood?”

      “Yes — no — you have told me all that there is to tell, I suppose?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “I shall go to bed. I’m thoroughly upset by all this. Stay. Is it a settled thing that this man who has been found murdered is the person who accompanied me to this house to-day?”

      “Oh, yes, sir; there’s no doubt about that. One of our people went down to the Foresters’ Arms, out of curiosity, as you may say, and he recognized the murdered man directly as the very gentleman that came into this house with you, sir, at four o’clock to-day.”

      Mr. Dunbar retired to the apartment that had been prepared for him. It was a spacious and handsome chamber, the best room in the hotel; and one of the waiters attended upon the rich man.

      “As you’ve been accustomed to have your valet about you, you’ll find it awkward, sir,” the landlord had said; “so I’ll send Henry to wait upon you.”

      This Henry, who was a smart, active young fellow, unpacked Mr. Dunbar’s portmanteau, unlocked his dressing-case, and spread the gold-topped crystal bottles and shaving apparatus upon the dressing-table.

      Mr. Dunbar sat in an easy-chair before the looking-glass, staring thoughtfully at the reflection of his own face, pale in the light of the tall wax-candles.

      He got up early the next morning, and before breakfasting he despatched a telegraphic message to the banking-house in St. Gundolph Lane.

      It was from Henry Maddison Dunbar to William Balderby, and it consisted of these words:—

      “Pray come to me directly, at the George, Winchester. A very awful event has happened; and I am in great trouble and perplexity. Bring a lawyer with you. Let my daughter know that I shall not come to London for some days.”

      All this time the body of the murdered man lay on a long table in a darkened chamber at the Foresters’ Arms.

      The rigid outline of the corpse was plainly visible under the linen sheet that shrouded it; but the door of the dread chamber was locked, and no one was to enter until the coming of the coroner.

      Meanwhile the Foresters’ Arms did more business than had been done there in the same space of time within the memory of man. People went in and out, in and out, all through the long morning; little groups clustered together in the bar, discoursing in solemn under-tones; and other groups straggled on the seemed as if every living creature in Winchester was talking of the murder that had been done in the grove near St. Cross.

      Henry Dunbar sat in his own room, waiting for an answer to the telegraphic message.

      Chapter 10

       Laura Dunbar.

       Table of Contents

      While these things had been happening between London and Southampton, Laura Dunbar, the banker’s daughter, had been anxiously waiting the coming of her father.

      She resembled her mother, Lady Louisa Dunbar, the youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantwick, a very beautiful and aristocratic woman. She had met Mr. Dunbar in India, after the death of her first husband, a young captain in a cavalry regiment, who had been killed in an encounter with the Sikhs a year after his marriage, leaving his young widow with an infant daughter, a helpless baby of six weeks old.

      The poor, high-born Lady Louisa Macmahon was left most desolate and miserable after the death of her first husband. She was very poor, and she knew that her relations in England were very little better off than herself. She was almost as helpless as her six-weeks’ old baby; she was heart-broken by the loss of the handsome young Irishman, whom she had fondly loved; and ill and broken down by her sorrows, she lingered in Calcutta, subsisting upon her pension, and too weak to undertake the perils of the voyage home.

      It was at this time that poor

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