“I’ve seen that,” said Pyecroft quickly. “It was so.”
“But if he was all charcoal-like?” said Pritchard, shuddering.
“You know how writing shows up white on a burned letter? Well, it was like that, you see. We buried ’em in the teak and I kept… But he was a friend of you two gentlemen, you see.”
Mr. Hooper brought his hand away from his waistcoat-pocket—empty.
Pritchard covered his face with his hands for a moment, like a child shutting out an ugliness.
“And to think of her at Hauraki!” he murmured—“with ’er ’air-ribbon on my beer. ‘Ada,’ she said to her niece… Oh, my Gawd!”…
“On a summer afternoon, when the honeysuckle blooms,
And all Nature seems at rest,
Underneath the bower, ’mid the perfume of the flower,
Sat a maiden with the one she loves the best——”
sang the picnic-party waiting for their train at Glengariff.
“Well, I don’t know how you feel about it,” said Pyecroft, “but ’avin’ seen ’is face for five consecutive nights on end, I’m inclined to finish what’s left of the beer an’ thank Gawd he’s dead!”