It was my own voice, hoarse and unrecognizable, uttering the cry. I clutched the ready revolver and cocked it.
“Sahib! dead man, all is buried in garden. His bones me see.”
It was my Indian cook who brought the information. This, then, was the cause of the unnatural manifestations. Doubtless, the house had been the scene of a horrible murder, and the criminals had hastily hidden the ghastly proof of their deed in the garden; but murder will out, and the unrestful spirit of the victim was wandering around.
Now I had studied Forensic Medicine and had read Gaboriau. It behoved me, therefore, to work out this crime, track the murderers, and bring them to justice.
“Ustughonha biya inja,”—“Bring hither the bones,” I said.
I know the human bones, every ridge, furrow, and knob, from the fifth Metatarsal to the Sphenoid. Many a night in the years gone by had I sat poring over a bone, while the stars twinkled in the heavens—at least, I expect they did; not that it matters.
The servant returned, and with horror and disgust depicted on his swarthy face laid a small bone on the table in front of me.
“But where are the others? Bring the skull, man—the head.”
“Sahib, other me not see.”
With an eagle glance I pierced him, and he shrunk back.