Deborah crept forward, prepared for some horrible sight, and thinking still of Rees.
On the damp, muddy floor, with a piece of old and frayed matting wrapped around it, lay the body of a man. As Deborah drew near, the flickering match held by the policeman went out, and while he struck another his companion laid his hand on the lady’s arm with evident suspicion. Deborah did not resent the touch; she stood in a dumb agony of dread.
When the lantern was lighted, she dared not look; the policeman drew her forward.
“Will you besergood as to tell us whether you know the gentleman?”
She glanced down, and utterly unable to restrain herself, almost shrieked:
“Lord St. Austell! Dead! Murdered!”
The men looked at each other and at her. By her tone they knew that the sight was for her a ghastly surprise, and the man who had held her arm at once let it go. Lord St. Austell was a well-known and popular peer, and, looking closer, one of the policemen recognised his face.
“She’s right. The lady’s right, Bill,” said he more respectfully.
And the men looked at each other and at Deborah again. The dead earl’s character was so well-known that their first thought was of an ambush laid, with a handsome woman as decoy.
“Do you know who’s done this, ma’am?” asked one, bluntly.