“Didn't they say they found Wilson lying fifty yards below the river?”
“They did; fifty yards to the south of the bridge.”
“It was as far to the north that I left him. I'm sure of it. I was sobered by what happened. I could swear it in heaven, Ralph. It was full fifty yards on the down side of the bridge from the smithy.”
“Think again, my lad; it's a serious thing that you say.”
“I've thought of it too much. It has tormented me day and night. There's no use in trying to persuade myself I must be wrong. Fifty yards on the down side of the beck from the smithy—that was the place, Ralph.”
The dalesman looked grave. Then a light crossed his face as if a wave of hope had passed through him. Sim had said he was leaning against the bridge. All that Angus could have done must have been done to the north of it. Was it possible, after all, that Angus had not killed Wilson by that fall?
“You say that for the moment, when you touched him, you thought Wilson was not dead?”
“It's true, I thought so.”
Sim had thought the same.
“Did you see any one else that night?”