Then, with that curious omniscience which sometimes seemed to belong to the man, he sent a strange cry into the gloom.
"Are you anywhere about, Winter?"
Nor was there anything aggressive in the call. It was subdued, sad, touched with solemnity, like the voice of a man who had wept, and dried his eyes.
There was little delay before Winter appeared out of the shadow of his ambush.
"I am!" he said; he was amazed beyond expression, yet his colleague had ever been incomprehensible in some things.
"Windy night," said Furneaux, in an absurd affectation of ease.
"And wet," said Winter, utterly at a loss how to take the other.
"Odd that we should both come to visit the poor thing's grave at the same hour," remarked Furneaux.
"It may be odd," agreed Winter.
There was a bitter silence.