It seemed a long while before Gimblet spoke. He stood as if turned to stone, and Brampton felt an indefinable horror stealing over him, a dread of he knew not what, but which he seemed to be conscious was in some way a reflection or telepathic transference of the other’s unspoken thoughts.
At last with an obvious effort Gimblet straightened himself.
“We must tilt out a little more earth,” he said in a low tone, “very carefully now.”
Very cautiously they raised the side of the stand again, and a rush of soil poured over the edge; the little patch of white they had seen in a corner became a large piece, and almostly instantly it was plain to them all that the greater part of the box was full of it. Leaving the others to manage the box, which was now easily steadied, Gimblet ran round and knelt at its side, scooping out handfuls of garden mould and disclosing what looked like a very long, bulky bundle of flowered chintz.
Suddenly, in a voice hardly above a whisper, Brampton broke the silence.
“My God!” he said, pointing, and staring with horrified eyes.
From the corner of the wrapper a hand protruded, half covered with earth; it was a white and shapely hand, the hand of a woman.
“Do you see it?” whispered Brampton again, and leant shaking against the wall.
“It’s a hand,” said Higgs, troubled but stolid.