“This looks like murder,” he said, in a low tone, carefully examining the wound.
“There is a revolver lying there among the undergrowth,” pointed out John Temple.
Mr. Churchill went forward at these words to the spot John indicated, and picked up the revolver and looked at it attentively.
“Why, Mr. Wray,” he said, “this is your revolver—here is your name engraved on it.”
Then James Wray raised his stony, grief-stricken face, and looked at the revolver in the farmer’s hand.
“Yes,” he said, “it’s mine—how did it come here?”
“It looks as if she—”
“She never brought it—she has been lured here and shot. Oh! my girl, my girl, that I should have lived to see this day!”
Nothing could exceed his heartrending grief. Elsie had been his only child, and for her he had worked and saved. He was well off, and for long had nourished a secret hope that his daughter would marry the young squire of Stourton Grange. And now it was all over; she lay dead before him—had died a tragic death—and a dark suspicion crossed his mind as he looked at her motionless form.
“Whoever’s done it, I’ll hunt him down!” he swore, inwardly. “I’ll ha’ his life for thine!”