To halt would be to reveal our visit to the wood to the village constable, therefore we sprang across a stile, skirted the grass land, keeping beneath the high hawthorn hedge, and emerging into the roadway just as the lights of the gig came around the bend.
“Halloa! doctor!” I shouted, as he approached with the constable at his side, and the groom behind.
“Who’s that?” he inquired, peering into the darkness.
“Hughes—Wilfrid Hughes,” I answered, and a moment later he pulled up, and both Eric and I greeted him.
“We can go across the fields from here,” Booth remarked. Therefore they all three descended, and leaving the groom with the horse, we allowed ourselves to be guided by the constable to the spot where the body was lying.
“I hope, gentlemen, you haven’t been waitin’ long,” said Booth, addressing us, as he lit the hurricane lamp he had brought.
“Not at all,” declared Eric, quite unconcernedly, “but we’re naturally very anxious to ascertain who the poor fellow is.”
“From what Booth says, it seems a clear case of murder,” remarked Richards, the hard-working country practitioner.
“A mystery, evidently,” said Domville. “Has no weapon been found?”
“We haven’t searched yet, sir,” the constable replied. “We’ll have to wait till daylight.”