"He has been in the grounds at night very often these last few weeks, mother?"
"Very often, Jeremiah."
"Whether he dies in the house or out of the house, the story holds good."
"The story holds good," she echoed.
"You can describe the man's dress and appearance: there is nothing like being exact in these matters: there are peculiarities about him by which you will be able to recognise him when he is arrested."
"Leave all that to me, Jeremiah. I will show you what I am capable of. And you—where will you be in the morning?"
"In the office in London, as usual, having possessed myself of the keys which he tricked out of me upstairs. Give me a drink of brandy—ah! that puts life into one! And some bread and meat—no, I cannot eat."
"You must, Jeremiah; you must! It will give you strength. That's right. Force yourself to eat. Don't drink much. Keep cool for what is to come! Now go—and keep out of sight. You must not be seen in the village. The monster upstairs never wanders near the beeches; you will be safe there. I will come to you in an hour or two."
Stealthily, warily, Jeremiah crept from the house, and proceeded in the direction indicated by his mother. The sun was setting, and blood was in the sky. It shone upon the rising ground and upon the topmost branches of the trees. His eyes did not rest upon the glories of a lovely sunset, but upon blotches and streaks of blood. Once, standing where he could not himself be seen, he turned to the house, and watched the blood-red stains in the windows. Behind the crimson panes lurid shadows moved; the rooms were alive with murderous shapes and forms engaged in fierce conflict. Above him and all around him lurked the spirit of murder!