CHAPTER XXXIII
A MAN FROM THE GRAVE
There was nothing to be done.
The possibility of recovering the Indian's body from the Wizard's Marsh was a remote one, and, even were it done, what would the advantage of such a recovery be? Christian burial would be denied to such a creature, and with good reason.
It was with a certain feeling of satisfaction, combined with horror at the nature of the Thug's end, that Laurence rode slowly home on his bicycle, accompanied by Nichols, mounted on the mare.
On their way they passed a woman, who was commencing the long trudge across the moor in somewhat tattered attire, and with a ponderous bundle on her shoulders.
Something in her figure being familiar to Laurence, he scrutinised her features as she tramped past.
"She" was the person who had taken refuge in the tree from the bloodhounds who were pursuing the fugitive Thug—the convict servant, Horncastle, from Durley Dene! What did it mean? Where was he going?
Laurence had not to wait long for an answer to these questions.
He took leave of Nichols, and entered the dining-room on arriving home.