With a shudder I rose, conscious for the first time that I was feeling chilled. I must get somewhere—talk to someone; and, as if in answer to my thoughts, a car came suddenly in sight, bumping over the track.
There was an elderly man inside, and two girls, and he pulled up at once on seeing me.
"By Jove!" he cried, cheerily, "you're very wet. Can I give you a lift anywhere?"
"It is very good of you," I said. "I want to get to the police as quickly as possible."
"The police?" He stared at me surprised. "What's wrong?"
"There's been a most ghastly tragedy," I said. "A man has been murdered and the murderer has jumped over that headland, with his wife in his arms. The murderer's name was Rupert Carlingham."
I was prepared for my announcement startling them; I was not prepared for the extraordinary effect it produced. With a shriek of terror the two girls clung together, and the man's ruddy face went white.
"What name did you say?" he said at length, in a shaking voice.
"Rupert Carlingham," I answered, curtly. "And the boy he murdered was called John Trelawnay. Incidentally I want to get a doctor to look at the youngster. It's possible the knife might have just missed his heart."
"Oh, daddy, drive on, drive on quick!" implored the girls, and I glanced at them in slight surprise. After all a murder is a very terrible thing, but it struck me they were becoming hysterical over it.