The outhouse was not more than eleven feet square, and the barrow with its burden was stretched across it diagonally, so that when the two men were inside, the place was full and the door would scarcely close. A small window gave light.
Rivers gently pulled the black cloth aside.
“This is just such black cloth as photographers use,” he remarked.
“So it is,” said Carpentaria.
The eyes of the corpse were closed; he might have been a man asleep, this strange relic from which a soul had flown and which would soon resolve itself into its original dust.
“Poor fellow,” thought Carpentaria. “Once he lived, and had interests, and probably passions, and thought himself of some importance in the universe.”
The spectacle saddened Carpentaria, whereas the young doctor was not at all saddened, he was merely intensely interested.
“A blow on the head among other things,” he observed, indicating to Carpentaria the top of the skull which showed an abrasion together with an extravasation of blood, now clotted.
“Would that do it?” queried Carpentaria.
“Don’t know. Might. By Jove, the rigor is extraordinarily acute.”