“Then he was alive?”
“What a foolish question, child. You don’t suppose the dead can walk, do you? ‘Dead men rise up never.’”
“Ugh—” shivered Nancy. “Oh, dear, but I’m glad that we didn’t really see a murder. Which did you think struck the blow?”
“How can I tell,” answered Billie. “But I would much rather it would be Ignatius Donahue, if it was our Mr. Donahue, who was struck down. Because the other man ran away.”
Early the next morning just as sunrise flooded the world with a mellow light, Virginia l’Estrange tiptoed from the front door of her house and climbed into the back of an old spring wagon where she sat down composedly in a rocking-chair.
“Git up, Alexander,” said Uncle Peter, who occupied the driver’s seat, and off they started down the avenue.
As they turned into the main road, they noticed a man sitting on the ground holding his head in both hands.
“Stop, Uncle Peter,” ordered the girl. “Are you ill?” she asked.
The man looked up with a dazed expression.
“I—I think I am,” he answered.