“It looks very black, at least,” continued Temple; “there is a revolver lying near the body among the undergrowth, but I thought it best not to touch it until the police arrive.”
“The body!” gasped the landlord, with staring eyes fixed on John Temple’s face, who did not know he was the father of the unhappy Elsie.
“Yes, the poor woman is quite dead, has been dead apparently for hours,” answered Temple, and as he spoke a sort of cry escaped the landlord’s lips.
“Where is she?” he asked in a hoarse voice. “It’s not my girl, but still—”
“She is suspended from a tree a little farther up the Dene,” said John. “I can show you the spot.”
“Oh, no, no, Mr. Wray!” now cried May, laying her hand on the landlord’s arm. “Let father and me go first—it’s no sight for you—”
But the landlord pushed aside her detaining hand.
“Let me go,” he said, hoarsely, and he ran forward, followed by the rest. Then when he beheld the ghastly sight, the streaming black hair, the half-open eyes, a great cry escaped his lips.
“My girl, my girl!”
His words rang through the woods. He flung himself on his knees; he raised the head; he looked wildly in the face. Yes, it was his girl—his Elsie—lying foully murdered in this lone spot!