“Five or six miles. I saw the man’s letters—he seems to come from there—Winchester.”
At the Winchester hospital they found after an anxious hour that the girl was only stunned and bruised. She would be all right. She was easily identified—a girl about town.
The young man seemed to be a person of prominence. An odd stiffness of local scandal hung over the necessary inquiries. Evidently the association of the man and girl was not discussible. The police notified the man’s father and a party set out for the wreck with Anthony as guide.
Horatia had a glimpse of a white, stricken, elderly man bending over the body and heard him groan in horrified pain. There was nothing left for them to do. They turned towards home.
“Poor devil,” said Anthony, “he’s gone and there’s an awful gap somewhere. Because he wanted to be a bounder. Nice-looking fellow he was, too.”
“Let’s get home quickly,” begged Horatia.
Anthony turned to look at her.
“Sorry it happened,” he said briefly, “but you were game, Horatia. Lord, but you were game.”
She tried to smile and only succeeded in turning very faint.
“I never saw a dead person before except my mother, and I can’t remember that.”