Crofts and I stooped to lift by the shoulders and feet respectively. During our brief act of carrying the corpse into the Hall and composing it on the couch, the wind suddenly rose into a mighty strife, and heavy plashing drops of rain came sousing on the windows. The gale was mad with leaves from the dishevelled autumn trees, which came knocking on the panes, clung there for moments like silhouettes, and were whirled on to their fate.
Crofts stood beside the useless and ironic tea-service, agaze at the streaming windows. His lips were moving, but I heard no speech from them.
I moved over beside him. “Who is Superintendent Salt?”
“The best man for detective work in Radnorshire, and the Chief Constable knows it, they say. Lucky for us Salt lives in New Aidenn. But he’ll never get here to-night—not in this deluge.”
Something dashed against the window-pane, and from us came a stifled cry. Handsome Ruth Clay, who had come in to remove the tea things, was standing with her fist jammed halfway into her mouth, her frightened eyes staring to the stormy night.
“What’s the matter?”
“See, see! The Bird!”
I followed her look, just in time to see some small dark object blown before the wind and lost in the howling murk. “It came up against the window. I saw it.”
“And what of it?”
“It’s the Corpse-bird, sir. It means a death!”