“The murder in the wood was an event in Helvore. The people were unused to such tragedies, and it afforded them something to talk about for many weeks. The evidence against the husband was conclusive. He had been caught red-handed, he was an habitual drunkard, and he paid the penalty for his crime in the usual manner.
“I left Helvore. I had seen enough of Cumberland and thirsted for life in London once again. Yet, often at night, the sighing of the wind in the trees sounded in my ears, bidding me visit them once more.
“One day as I was sitting by my fire with a pile of books at my side, taking life easily, for I had nothing to do but to kill time, my old friend, Frank Leethwaite, looked me up. He had been at Sedbergh with me in the far-off eighties, and he was the only friend of the old set with whom I had been out of touch.
“He had not altered much, in spite of a moustache and a fair sprinkling of white hairs. I should have known him had I met him anywhere. He was wearing an Albert coat, and his face was red with healthy exercise.
“‘How are you, old chap?’ he exclaimed, shaking hands in the hearty fashion of true friendship.
“I winced, for he had strong hands.
“‘Fit enough,’ I said, ‘only a bit bored. But you—well, you look just the same, and fresh as a daisy.’ I gave him the easy-chair.
“‘Oh, I’m first rate—plenty of work. I’m a journalist, you know. It’s a bit of a grind, but I’m taking a holiday. You look pale. Your eyes are bad?’
“I told him they got strained if I read much.