Then the murderer rained a series of merciless blows on the prostrate man, thereby reducing him to a state of insensibility.
All this had been but the work of two or three minutes at the most.
But the diabolical wretch had not as yet completed his murderous work. Drawing a clasp knife from his pocket he inflicted with its blade a severe gash in the throat of his victim.
Ruffian as he was he was also a coward. As he was stooping over the dead body of the farmer he became alarmed.
He thought he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and the knife, which by this time was covered with blood, slipped out of his hand.
He searched for it in vain. The ground was strewed with fallen leaves, and the knife was nowhere to be seen.
Big drops of perspiration fell from the murderer’s temples on his horny hands as he was groping about for the missing weapon.
A horrible thought took possession of him. It was this. Possibly the instrument with which the deed was done would rise up in judgment against him, and be the means of his identification.
He shook and trembled with fear—a death-like spasm crept through his heart.
He became almost frantic, and turned over the leaves in the hope of finding the knife, but his endeavours were not crowned with success.