The others followed. They found her lying a few yards from the water's edge. The manager struck a match, and they looked down.
The danseuse shrieked, and fainted. Mrs. Astley-Rolfe sank on her knees, sobbing, and covered her face with her hands. The financier sickened, and turned away, trembling violently.
"God!" Tranter cried—"some one must have stamped on her!"
He bent down. "Thea...." he whispered.
Something like a sob shook him. But the others did not see.
"It must have been a wild beast," shuddered the clergyman.
"It is the work of a madman," said the manager hoarsely. "He has utterly destroyed her—as he threatened."
George Copplestone stood without a tremor. As he looked down at the broken form all his frenzy disappeared. The distortion of his first fury faded from his face, leaving it set in a pallid, lifeless mask. He contemplated the dreadful destruction at his feet without a sign of horror, or even of pity. He was perfectly steady. Not a quiver escaped him. Stooping down, he asked quietly for assistance to carry the body to the house.
"Wait a bit," said the manager, looking at him curiously. "She ought not to be moved before the police come."
Copplestone straightened himself, and remained silent.