“Parson, what sort of man would that man be. . . ?”
Then he stopped and rattled in his throat, and Francis felt a curious nausea as he looked at the man and saw how frightened he was.
“What sort of man?” asked Francis, feeling that the question was almost as meaningless as the man’s words.
“She’s got a cut in her throat and a lot of blood. . . . I say.”
“I say,” echoed Francis.
“We’d better go,” said the man.
“Yes,” said Francis. “Does anybody know?”
“No,” replied the man, “I been looking at her three hours.”
With that he seemed to gain control of himself, and his legs did not shake any more and his lips set in a thin straight line. He stood up and went to the door and Francis followed him. Very cunningly the man looked at him and said: “You do know how a man could do it?”
“No,” said Francis, “unless——”