“How long ago was that?” asked Nick.
“Less than half an hour.”
“And how far from here?”
“Less than a mile. I reckoned a murder——”
“One moment,” Nick interposed. “What is your name?”
“Pete Henley. I live off yonder in the crossroad a piece. I was gunning for birds around the pond when I struck this sort of game.”
“Did you find any other evidence of a murder?”
“That’s what,” nodded Henley. “Blood on the grass and bushes. Some are trampled down, and a lot of footprints and heel holes in the ground point to an ugly fight.”
“I see,” Nick said gravely. “That does look bad.”
“I did not wait to hunt for the girl’s body,” Henley went on, with grim glibness. “It might be in the pond. I reckoned I’d better rush these things to Bailey, the constable, and then show him where Ginger found them.”