“Certainly, m’lord,” was Booth’s prompt reply, and we moved off together.
My great fear was that the village constable should remark upon my previous visit to him, therefore I walked with him, keeping him a considerable distance behind the others as we went up the street.
“The superintendent is not here now?” I remarked casually, in order that he should recall our meeting up in the wood while we were alone, and not before my friends.
“No, sir. The guv’nor went back to Chichester about an hour ago,” was his answer, and a few minutes later we turned into a farmyard, where in a barn, the door of which was unlocked by one of the men, we saw the body lying face upwards upon a plank on trestles.
Booth drew the handkerchief from the dead face that seemed to stare at us so grimly in the semi-darkness of the barn, and from my companions escaped exclamations of surprise and horror.
“Awful!” gasped the young viscount—who was known as “The Scrambler” to his intimates—a name given to him at Eton; “I wonder who murdered him?”
“I wonder!” echoed Ellice Winsloe in a hard, hushed voice.
His strange tone attracted me, and my eyes fell upon his countenance. It had, I was amazed to see, blanched in an instant, and was as white as that of the dead man himself.
The sudden impression produced upon the others was such that they failed to notice the change in Ellice. I, however, saw it distinctly.
I was confident of one thing—that he had identified the victim.