Mr. Thurwell was in the front rank, and evidently in the best of spirits. It was he who answered them.
"Capital sport!" he declared heartily. "Birds a little wild, but strong, and plenty of them. We've made a big bag for only three guns. Sir Geoffrey was in capital form. Groves, open a bottle of Heidseck."
"Where is Geoffrey?" asked Rachel—his sister.
Mr. Thurwell looked round and discovered his absence for the first time.
"I really don't know," he answered, a little bewildered; "He was with us a few minutes ago. What's become of Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, Heggs?" he asked, turning round to one of the gamekeepers.
"He left us at the top of the Black Copse, sir," the man answered. "He was coming round by the other side—shot a woodcock there once, sir," he said.
They glanced across the moor toward Falcon's Nest. There was no one in sight.
"He's had plenty of time to get round," remarked Lord Lathon, throwing down his gun. "Perhaps he's resting."
Mr. Thurwell shook his head.
"No; he wouldn't do that," he said. "He was as keen about getting here as any of us. Hark! what was that?"
A faint sound was borne across the moor on the lazily stirring breeze. Helen, whose hearing was very keen, started, and the little party exchanged uneasy glances.
"It must have been a sea-gull," remarked Lord Lathon, who wanted his luncheon very badly indeed. "We'd better not wait for him. He'll turn up all right; Geoffrey always does. Come——"
He broke off suddenly in his speech and listened. There was another sound, and this time there was no mistake about it. It was the low, prolonged howl of a spaniel—a mournful sound which struck a strange note in the afternoon stillness. There was breathless silence for a moment amongst the little group, and the becoming glow died out of Helen's cheek.
Rachel Kynaston was the first to recover herself.
"Had Sir Geoffrey a dog with him, Heggs?" she asked quickly.
"Yes, miss," the man answered. "His favorite spaniel had got unchained somehow, and found us on the moor. I saw her at heel when he left us. She was very quiet, and Sir Geoffrey wouldn't have her sent back."
"Then something has happened to him!" she cried. "That was Fido's howl."
"Has anyone heard his gun?" Mr. Thurwell asked.
There was no one left to answer him. They had all started across the moor toward the black patch of spinneys around which Sir Geoffrey should have come. Mr. Thurwell, forgetting his fatigue, hurried after them; and Helen, after a moment's hesitation, followed too, some distance behind.
She ran swiftly, but her dress caught often in the prickly gorse, and she had to pause each time to release herself. Soon she found herself alone, for the others had all turned the corner of the plantation before she reached it. There was a strong, sickly sense of coming disaster swelling in her heart, and her knees were tottering. Still she held on her way bravely. A few yards before she reached the corner of the plantation, she almost ran into the arms of Lord Lathon, who was hurrying back to meet her. There was a ghastly shade in his pale face, and his voice trembled.
"Miss Thurwell," he exclaimed in an agitated tone, "you must not come! Let me take you back. Something—has happened! I am going to Rachel. Come with me."
She drew away from him, and threw off his restraining arm.
"No; I must see for myself. Let me pass, please—at once."
He tried again to prevent her, but she eluded him. A few rapid steps and she had gained the corner. There they all were in a little group scarcely a dozen yards away. A mist floated before her eyes, but she would see; she was determined that she would see this thing for herself. She struggled on a few steps nearer. There was something lying on the grass around which they were all gathered; something very much like a human shape. Ah! she could see more plainly now. It was Sir Geoffrey—Sir Geoffrey Kynaston. He was lying half on the grass and half in the dry ditch. His white face was upturned to the cloudless sky; by his side, and discoloring his brown tweed shooting coat, was a dark wet stain. In the midst of it something bright was flashing in the sunlight.
She stood still, rooted to the spot with a great horror. Her pulses had ceased to beat. The warm summer day seemed suddenly to have closed in around her. There was a singing in her ears, and she found herself battling hard with a deadly faintness. Yet she found words.
"Has he—shot himself?" she cried. "Is it an accident?"
Her father turned round with a little cry, and hastened to her side.
"Helen!" he gasped. "You should not be here! Come away, child! I sent Lathon——"
"I will know—what it is. Is it an accident? Is he—dead?"
He shook his head. The healthy sunburnt tan had left his face, and he was white to the lips.
"He has been murdered!" he faltered. "Foully, brutally murdered!"
CHAPTER III
MR. BERNARD BROWN
Murder is generally associated in one's mind with darkness, the still hours of night, and bestiality. It is the outcome of the fierce animal lust for blood, provoked by low passions working in low minds. De Quincey's brilliant attempt to elevate it to a place among the fine arts has only enriched its horrors as an abstract idea. Even detached from its usual environment of darkness, and ignorance, and vice, it is an ugly thing.
But here was something quite different. Such a tragedy as this which had just occurred was possessed of a peculiar hideousness of its own. It seemed to have completely laid hold of the little group of men gathered round the body of Sir Geoffrey Kynaston; to have bereft them of all reasoning power and thought, to have numbed even their limbs and physical instincts. It was only a few minutes ago since they had left him, careless and debonair, with his thoughts intent upon the business, or rather the sport, of the hour. His laugh had been the loudest, his enjoyment the keenest, and his gun the most deadly of them all. But now he lay there cold and lifeless, with his heart's blood staining the green turf, and his sightless eyes dull and glazed. It was an awful thing!
Physically, he had been the very model of an English country gentleman, tall and powerful, with great broad shoulders, and strikingly upright carriage, full of vigorous animal life, with the slight restlessness of the constant traveler banished by his sudden passion for the girl who had so lately promised to be his wife.
She drew a little nearer—they were all too much overcome by the shock of this thing to prevent her—and stood with glazed eyes looking down upon him. Everything, even the minutest article of his dress, seemed to appeal to her with a strange vividness. She found herself even studying the large check of his shooting-coat and the stockings which
