"A man's hand?"
"Oh, zur! I wur too frighted to dig vurther, but throws down my spade, and coom runnin' to th' house to tell yer, zur, of what I'd zeen."
"Come with me, both of you," I said.
"Oh, zur!" they began.
"If it be a dead man, of what should you be afraid?" I cried fiercely. "Come."
I led the way out, and they followed me. I did not want them to conduct me to the spot; I knew where it was—I knew where she had led me last night. I entered the orchard, the two men behind me. In a few minutes I had reached the place.
The soil was broken. Around it the dry leaves and grass lay in heaps, as though scattered by a high wind. Amid the newly-dug mould I saw the fingers of a human hand.
"Take that spade and dig," I said.
One of the men took it up reluctantly and began to clear away the mould. Bit by bit, as he dug the moist earth out of the grave, first the arm, and then the body of a man completely dressed, appeared. The gardener stooped, took the arm by the sleeve, and raised the body.