"Good-morning," he said to me, seating himself upon a corner of the office desk. "This is a shameful affair, sir; the worst that has happened in Trafton, to my mind. Only yesterday I officiated at the funeral of the little one; she was only seven years old, and looked like a sleeping angel, and now—"
He paused and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"Mrs. Beale will be distracted," said Charlie Harris, turning toward us. "It was her only girl."
"Beale is a mechanic, you see," said the elder, addressing me. "He is working upon some new buildings at Swan Station."
"How was it discovered?" said his son.
"I hardly know; they sent for me to break the news to Mrs. Beale, and I thought it best to send for Beale first. The town is working into a terrible commotion over it."
Just here a number of excited Traftonites entered the outer room and called out Mr. Harris.
A moment later I saw Carnes pass the window; he moved slowly, and did not turn his head, but I knew at once that he wished to see me. I arose quietly and went out. Passing through the group of men gathered about Mr. Harris, I caught these words: "Cursed resurrectionist," and, "I knew he was not the man for us."
Hurrying out I met Carnes at the corner of the building.