“It’s murder!” cried the first speaker. “Run for help!”
“Here it is!” said the other excitedly, as several figures were seen approaching; and he uttered a loud shout.
“What is it? Have you found them?” cried the first of the fresh party, panting.
“Found this man—he’s dead.”
“We’ve been hunting them for long enough,” said the other. “Yes, that’s one; here’s his coat and waistcoat. Good God! is he dead?”
“I don’t know,” said the man, leaning over Huish’s body. “He’s got an ugly wound. I wonder who he is?”
“I know,” said the man who had come up. “We have found his pocket-book and a letter. His name’s Huish—John Huish—and the letter’s from a doctor—Stonor, I think the name is.”
“Never mind the name as long as it is a doctor!” cried the man who knelt by Huish. “Someone run for him. Here, who’s got a flask?”