For some time we carefully searched, conversing only in whispers. My hands were scratched, and stung by nettles, and Jack had his coat badly torn by thorns. The garden had been allowed to run wild for all the years since old Mrs. Carpenter’s death, and the two ash trees had spread until their thick branches overshadowed a large portion of the ground.
Beneath one of these trees I suddenly halted as an ejaculation escaped me. Near the trunk, and in such a position that it would not be seen even from the windows of the house, yawned a hole, and at its side a mound of newly-dug earth.
“Ah!” I cried. “This is what I’ve been in search of!” The discovery revealed a ghastly truth. I shuddered at the sight of it.
“What, that hole?” asked Jack, in a low voice as we approached and peered into it. I judged it to be about three feet or so in depth. “What a funny thing to search for!”
“That hole, Jack, was intended for a man’s grave!” I whispered hoarsely, “and the man intended was myself!”
“You!” he gasped. “What do you mean, Owen?”
“I mean that that grave yonder was dug in order to conceal my dead body,” was my low, meaning answer. “And I fear—fear very much—that the remains of others who have met with foul play have been concealed here!”
“You mean that murder was actually intended!” he exclaimed in astonishment. “When?”
“Last night. I was entrapped here and narrowly escaped.”