This Henry, who was a smart, active young fellow, unpacked Mr. Dunbar's portmanteau, unlocked his dressing-case, and spread the gold-topped crystal bottles and shaving apparatus upon the dressing-table.
Mr. Dunbar sat in an easy-chair before the looking-glass, staring thoughtfully at the reflection of his own face, pale in the light of the tall wax-candles.
He got up early the next morning, and before breakfasting he despatched a telegraphic message to the banking-house in St. Gundolph Lane.
It was from Henry Maddison Dunbar to William Balderby, and it consisted of these words:—
"Pray come to me directly, at the George, Winchester. A very awful event has happened; and I am in great trouble and perplexity. Bring a lawyer with you. Let my daughter know that I shall not come to London for some days."
All this time the body of the murdered man lay on a long table in a darkened chamber at the Foresters' Arms.
The rigid outline of the corpse was plainly visible under the linen sheet that shrouded it; but the door of the dread chamber was locked, and no one was to enter until the coming of the coroner.
Meanwhile the Foresters' Arms did more business than had been done there in the same space of time within the memory of man. People went in and out, in and out, all through the long morning; little groups clustered together in the bar, discoursing in solemn under-tones; and other groups straggled on the threshold, and loitered on the sunny pavement outside; until it seemed as if every living creature in Winchester was talking of the murder that had been done in the grove near St. Cross.
Henry Dunbar sat in his own room, waiting for an answer to the telegraphic message.