“Dead!” the young man answered with a sob. “Killed in his chair!”
The dogs came out of the shelter. They turned towards the interior of the spinney. The little crowd came streaming through the gate.
“I gave shelter to a man who admitted that he was in trouble,” he said gravely. “He heard the dogs and he was terrified. He has jumped into the slate quarry.”
The dogs were on the trail now. They followed them to the edge of the quarry. Here the bushes were trodden down, a man’s cap was hanging on one close to the bottom. They all peered over into the still water, unnaturally black. Amies, the head keeper, raised his head.
“It’s twenty-five feet deep—some say forty, and a sheer drop,” he declared impressively. “We’ll have to drag it for the body.”
“Best take the dogs round the other side, and make sure he ain’t got out again,” one of the crowd suggested.
Amies pointed scornfully to the precipitous side. Such a feat was clearly impossible. Nevertheless the dogs were taken round. For a few minutes they were uneasy, but eventually they returned to the spot from which their intended victim had dived. Every one was peering down into the dark water as though fascinated.
“I thought as they come up once or twice before they were drownded,” somebody remarked.
“Not unless they want to,” another answered. “This chap wasn’t too anxious. He knew his goose was cooked.”