This was more than peaceful Wallbridge had wished for. This dreadful dash of red made even the April sunshine look a little queer. It could never be the same usual Wallbridge wind that blew upon the stalwart forms of the inspectors and policemen who had the case in hand.
Alleluia had been found, almost crazed, near the chalkpit; he had been looking for pretty Lily all night, he said, and had only found her at dawn. There was blood upon his clothes, he had held her body in his arms.
Others told so much, too. They had been seen together very often; they had been followed, watched, and the stars needs must have blushed, so folks said. Tom Wakely had been away that red night, so it could not have been he who had done it.
Honest Mr. Tapper gave the strongest evidence, and Alleluia was hanged.
Perhaps this was a little hard upon Alleluia, but all men said he should have stuck to his hymn-singing and not gone out to look for pretty lilies at night-time. One wit even remarked that he could have sung his hymns in the town in a cheaper fashion without a stretch of the neck at the end of it.
The red splash of pretty Lily’s blood coloured some dozen or so years of Wallbridge life, but after that time was passed the old grey began to hang heavy again and an owl hooted.
The owl must have settled upon Mr. Tapper’s chimney, so near did the sound of its hooting seem to Mr. Tapper.
It was midnight, two old women—one was Mrs. Tapper—were sitting by the dying man’s side.
“’E do die ’ard,” Mrs. Tapper remarked in a friendly tone.
Mr. Tapper was thoughtful.