“Now, Hayle,” he said; “you lead.”
The keeper went in front, and Sir John followed; while the major came abreast of the doctor.
“We thought it better to have you with us, doctor,” whispered the major. “It’s a terrible business—a clearing up of a sad event from what I can see.”
Oldroyd felt more mystified than ever, but he was soon to be illumined, for the keeper led them over the dry cotton rushes and rustling reeds to a dried up pool, half in the open, half hidden by a dense growth of alder.
Here he paused and pointed.
“On yonder, Sir John, about fifty yards.”
The baronet walked straight forward, parting the growth with his stout stick, till he stopped short at the edge of a dried up pool, where the first thing Oldroyd saw was Marjorie Emlin seated on the edge, where a wiry tuft of rushes grew, with her feet amongst the dried confervae and crowfoot at the bottom of the pool. She had taken off her hat, and the sun turned her rich, tawny, red hair to gold as she bent over something which glittered in her hands; and this she transferred to one wrist as they came up.
It was not till they were close beside her that she turned her head, and nodded and smiled in a childish, vacant way, and then held up the glittering bracelet upon her wrist for them to admire.
“Better speak to her,” whispered Sir John. “Hayle says she’s quite mad.”
Oldroyd stooped and picked up the hat and handed it to the girl.