the grass, which was more like a morass. As she struggled to her knees the heavens overhead broke out in one dazzling sheet of flame, which for the moment threw a noonday light on the scene. There, under a tree, but a short distance away, Brenda saw a tall, dark, bulky figure standing. Hardly had the darkness shut down again when she heard a startled cry. Then a shot rang out with terrible distinctness, and then again the roaring of the tempest. Hardly knowing what she was doing, Brenda got on her feet, shaking and terrified. She ran forward. A second flare of lightning lighted the orchards with hell-fire, livid and blue. Almost at her feet she saw the body of a man. There came another deafening crash of thunder, and she staggered. A moment later and she lay senseless across the body of the unknown man shot in the darkness by an unknown hand.
CHAPTER III.
THE NAME OF THE VICTIM.
The cook at Mr. Scarse's cottage was in a great state of alarm. She did not mind an ordinary tempest of respectable English character coming at its due and proper season. But this gale, at the close of a quiet summer day, arriving with so little warning and raging with such fury, had frightened her beyond measure. As a precautionary measure against the frequent lightning, she concealed the knives, covered up all the mirrors and reflective surfaces generally, and threw the fire-irons into the garden. Having thus safeguarded the cottage against the bolts of heaven, Mrs. Daw--so she was called--insisted that the housemaid, a whimpering orphan of meagre intelligence, should go round the house with her to see if any one or anything had been struck. They found dining-room, drawing-room and bedrooms deserted, and the door of their master's study locked.
"Lor'!" said Mrs. Daw, her fat face ashen pale, "an' 'e may be lyin' a corp in there, poor dear!"
"Oh, no, he ain't," responded the shaking housemaid; "I 'ear voices. Jus' put your eye to the key-hole, cook."
But the cook's valor did not extend thus far. She also heard the murmur of voices, and, thinking her master and his friend the Dutchman were within, knocked at the door to bring them out for company. "We may as well go to 'eaven in a 'eap," said Mrs. Daw, knocking steadily like a woodpecker.
The door opened so suddenly that the two women recoiled with shrieks against the wall of the passage. Scarse, looking pale and upset, stepped out and closed the door after him. Judging him by themselves, they attributed his scared appearance to fright at the storm, and were ready to receive any amount of sympathy. But it soon appeared that their master had none to give them.
"What's all this? Why are you here?" he demanded, angry and suspicious.
"It's the storm, sir," whimpered Mrs. Daw, holding on to the housemaid. "I'm that feared as never was. Miss Brenda's hout, sir, and Mr. van Zwieten's with you, and me an' Tilda's a-shakin' like jelly."
"Miss Brenda out!" repeated Scarse, starting. "Oh, yes, I recollect she said something about going to the Rectory." This was untrue, but he seemed to think it necessary to make some excuse even to the servants. "I dare say Miss Brenda has been storm-bound there, and, as you say, Mr. van Zwieten is with me. There is nothing to be afraid of. Go back to the kitchen."
"The 'ouse may be struck, sir!
"The house won't be struck," said Scarse, impatiently. "Don't be a fool. It is almost ten o'clock--go to bed," and stepping back into the study, he closed and locked the door. Cook and housemaid tottered back to the kitchen.
"I'll give notice to-morrer," wailed the former. "It ain't right for two lone women to be without a manly arm. If 'e only kep' a footman or a coachman it 'ud be a 'elp. 'And me the Church Service, Tilda, an' we'll pray as we may not be took."
"Ow, ain't it orful!" yelped Tilda, as a fiercer blast than usual shook the cottage. "Turn up the Berryial Service, cook."
This request the cook hurriedly obeyed, and the two were soon cheerfully employed in drawing what comfort they could from this somewhat depressing selection. The clock struck ten, and so unstrung were their nerves that they simultaneously jumped and shrieked.
Tilda declared that the candle burned blue; that a coal in the form of a coffin had jumped out of the kitchen range; and meanwhile the storm raved and howled without, shaking the house, tearing at doors and windows as though twenty thousand demons were trying to force an entrance. In their terrified frame of mind Mrs. Daw and her factotum actually believed that such might be the case.
But they soon had further cause for alarm. The kitchen door was tried, but Mrs. Daw had locked it. Immediately there came a furious knocking, insistent and incessant. Tilda shrieked, and scrambled under the table. Mrs. Daw dropped the Church Service, and grasped the poker with a trembling hand. There was a crash of thunder which went grinding over the roof--then the battering at the door again.
"Quick! Quick! Let me in!" wailed a voice, thin, high-pitched and terrified.
"Don't, don't!" shrieked Tilda, grovelling under the table. "Oh, lor', wot a bad girl I 'ave been."
But Mrs. Daw, somewhat recovered from her terror, thought she recognized the voice, in spite of its accent of pain. "Yer's a fool, Tilda. It's Miss Brenda!" and she unlocked the door, still grasping the poker in case she should be mistaken. As the door flew open a wild blast tore into the kitchen, and Tilda shrieked again. Mrs. Daw, too, uttered an exclamation, for Brenda fell forward, flung into her arms. The girl was soaking wet, wild-eyed and white-faced with terror. She could hardly speak, and clung, choking and shaking, to the terrified cook. The door banged to with a crash.
"Murder! Help!" gasped Brenda, hoarsely. "Oh, my God! he is dead!"
"Dead! Murder!" shrieked Mrs. Daw, dropping the poker, and Tilda wailed in sympathetic chorus. "Lor', miss! Who's 'e?"
"I don't know--he is dead--shot--in the orchards," said Brenda, and fell down in a dead faint for the second time that night. Usually she was not given to such feminine weakness, but the terrors of the night had proved altogether too much for her.
Having something human to deal with, Mrs. Daw recovered her presence of mind and unloosened Brenda's cloak. "Poor dear! she's frightened out of her wits, an' no wonder. Tilda, tell 'er pa there's murders and faintings. Look sharp!"
Tilda crawled from under the table and across the floor. She raised herself with a sudden effort of will, and was soon hammering at the study door.
"Master--sir! 'Elp--murder--perlice! Oh, sir," as Scarse came out hurriedly, "Miss Brenda's in the kitchen, an' there's murder!"
He seized her wrists with an ejaculation of alarm. "Who is murdered? Speak, girl!"
"I don't know. Miss Brenda sez as there's murder. Oh, lor', what will become of us!"
Scarse shook her so that her teeth chattered. "Go back to the kitchen," he said sternly. "I'll follow directly," and Tilda found herself hurled against the wall, with the study door closed and locked. Her surprise at such treatment overcame even her terror.
"Well, 'e is a father!" she gasped, and her wits being somewhat more agile now that she was less afraid, she flew to the dining-room and snatched the spirit-stand from the sideboard. With this she arrived in the kitchen and found Brenda regaining her senses.
"Ain't 'e comin'?" asked Mrs. Daw, slapping Brenda's hands violently as a restorative measure.
"In a minute. 'Ere, give 'er some brandy. Where's a glarss? Oh, a cup'll do. Oh, ain't it all dreadful; just 'ear
