Geoffrey did so. He saw a face fixed with a grim smile, the smile of the man who can meet death and knows how to punish those who injure them. The face was seared and criss-crossed just like Tchigorsky's and Ralph Ravenspur's; indeed, with its strange disfigurement the dead Russian would have passed for Tchigorsky.
The face was black and swollen from an ugly bruise in the forehead. Had not he known the truth, and had any one told Geoffrey that Tchigorsky lay there, he would have believed it.
A spade had been placed in the bottom of the boat, and with it two deep graves were dug in the sand. Into them the bodies of the Orientals were cast; the sand was made smooth again, and a layer of heavy rocks laid on the top. The body of the Russian was conveyed to the boat and thence to the house.
There was nobody to see the mournful entry. All the family were on the terrace. A startled servant or two came forward and gave the necessary assistance to convey the body to the dimly lighted corridor.
"Go to the village and fetch the constable," said Geoffrey. "We have found a dead body on the beach."
The servant went off; the gallery was deserted. In a few minutes the family would be in the house again, and the story would have to be told. Tchigorsky looked cautiously from his hiding place.
"Is the coast clear?" he asked.
"Perfectly clear," said Geoffrey.
Tchigorsky came forward. For a long time he examined the body. The regret on his face was tempered by a gleam of grim satisfaction.