“Isaac Naylor murdered!” said Tom’s father under his breath. Will nodded his head; he was looking straight at Tom; his face was very pale and there was a troubled, anxious look in his eyes.
“Murdered!” repeated John, mechanically, “where, when, how?”
“Ephraim Whiteley and his colored man found him at five o’clock this morning; his scull was beaten in with a piece of fence-rail!”
“My God!” cried Tom. He put his hand to his forehead, for horrible thoughts were passing through his mind. Could he—could he have killed Isaac? Was it a creation of his fancy that had left him sitting upon the rock, half strangled, but otherwise unhurt?
“Where did they find him?” said John, in a low voice.
“On the old mill road, about three hundred yards from the turnpike.”
Tom looked slowly about him; was he dreaming? Did he really hear the words that Will spoke?
The Philadelphia coach had come up to them, but no one had noticed its coming. They must have showed by their faces that something strange had happened, for the coach stopped when it came to where they were standing.
“What’s the matter?” cried old John Grundy, from the box.
“Isaac Naylor’s been murdered,” said John, in a low voice.