“Found something else?” cried the rector excitedly.
“Bits o’ broken glass, sir,—glass bottle. There’s a lot of bits scattered about.”
The constable searched about the grass of the beech grove where the struggle had taken place, but not being gifted with the extraordinary eyes and skill of an American Indian, he failed to find the track of Vane’s assailants going and coming, and he was about to give up when the rector pointed to a couple of places amongst the dead leaves which looked as if two hands had torn up some of the dead leaves.
“Ay, that’s someat,” said the constable quickly. “I see, sir, you’re quite right. Some one went down here and—Phee-ew!” he whistled as he picked up a leaf. “See that, sir?”
The rector looked, shuddered and turned away, but Distin pressed forward with a curious, half-fascinated aspect, and stared down at the leaf the constable held out, pointing the while to several more like it which lay upon the ground.
“Blood?” said Distin in a hoarse voice.
“Yes, sir, that’s it. Either the young gent or some one else had what made that. Don’t look nice, do it?”
Distin shuddered, and the constable made another note in his book, moistening his pencil over and over again and glancing thoughtfully at Distin as he wrote in a character that might have been called cryptographic, for it would have defied any one but the writer to have made it out.
“Well, constable,” said the rector at last, “what have you discovered?”
“That the young gent was out here, sir, digging up them tater things as he was in the habit of grubbing up—weeds and things. I’ve seen him before.”