“She was purposely pushed over the Cliff, I suppose?” remarked Geoffrey.
“Perhaps,” replied his hostess. “But it is believed that there have been cases where the guilty have been condemned and executed by their fellows in order to suppress any scandal. More than one person moving in the highest circles has been found dead beneath the Crow’s Cliff.”
“Couldn’t we go up there and see it?” suggested Geoffrey.
“Certainly you could,” she replied. “There is a good road, though rather hilly, and a path which takes you close to the edge of the Cliff.”
So all three went to see the Crow’s Cliff.
The road proved badly kept and shadeless, as are most of the roads in Spain, and the path was rocky and crooked as they ascended to the summit of the Peña Grajera—the Crow’s Cliff.
At last all three walked to the edge of the precipice, where through the ages so many of the guilty ones had been hurled to destruction.
“That story about the young Englishwoman haunts me!” Geoffrey said to Sylvia as they approached the place and peered down upon the river winding across the plain below, which stretched away into the evening mist. “I wonder who she was?”
“Nobody will ever know,” declared Mrs. Mapleton. “Here in Spain many murders are committed on account of jealousy or revenge. No doubt the motive was either one or the other.”
“Terrible!” exclaimed Sylvia, shuddering at the thought of being flung over upon the crags below.