With Beck at my side, I walked sharply down the drive, rendered dark by the thick canopy of trees overhead, and had almost gained the gate leading to the high road when suddenly, catching my foot against some unseen object in the pathway, I fell heavily forward upon the gravel, just managing to save my face by putting out both hands.
“Hulloa!” cried Beck; “what’s the matter?”
“The matter!” I gasped, groping at the mysterious object quickly with my hands. “I believe I’ve fallen over somebody.”
“Drunk, I suppose. Come along, or we sha’n’t catch our train.”
But, still kneeling, I quickly took my vestas from my pocket and struck one. By its fitful light I distinguished the prostrate body of a man lying face downwards, with arms outstretched beyond his head. Turning him over with difficulty, I lit another vesta and held it close down to his face.
Next second I drew back with a loud cry of dismay and horror. It was Dudley Ogle.
His bloodless features were hideously distorted, his limbs rigid, his wildly-staring eyes were already glazed, and his stiffened fingers icy cold.
In an instant I knew the truth. He was dead.