He hoped she would not speak to him, for he thought perhaps he could
not bear it if she did, but she halted near by, and said:
"This is very dreadful about poor Mr. Clive."
"Very," he answered moodily.
"Why should poachers kill him?" she asked. "Why should they want
to?"
"I don't know," he answered, watching not her but her soft throat,
where he could see a pulse fluttering. "Perhaps it wasn't poachers,"
he added.
She started violently, and gave a quick look that seemed to make yet
more certain the certainty he already entertained.
"Who else could it be?" she asked in a low voice.
He did not answer.
After what seemed a long time she said:
"You asked me a question once--do you remember?"
He shook his head.
"Why don't you speak? Why can't you speak?" she cried angrily.
"Why can't you say something instead of just shaking your head?"
"You see, I've asked you so many questions," he said slowly.
"Perhaps I shall ask you some more some day--which question do you
mean?"
"I mean when you asked me if I had ever met any one who spoke in a
very shrill, high whistling sort of voice? Do you remember?"
"Yes," he said. "You wouldn't tell me."
"Well, I will now," she said. "I did meet a man once with a voice
like that. Do you remember the night you, came here that I drove
away in the car with a packing-case you carried downstairs?"
"Do I--remember?" he gasped, for that memory, and the thought of
how she had driven away into the night with, that grisly thing behind
her on the car had never since left his mind by night or by day.
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