As she did so, the man straightened himself suddenly, and turned round, and instantly a thrill of recognition and of horror went through the girl.  It was Nap Errol, and the thing on the ground was his black mare.

She knew in a flash what had happened.  Bertie had predicted disaster too often for her not to know.  A great wave of repulsion surged through her.  She was for the moment too horrified for speech.

Nap stood, erect, motionless, waiting for her.  There was a terrible set smile on his face like the smile on a death-mask.  He did not utter a word as she came up.

The mare was quite dead.  The starting, bloodshot eyes were already glazing.  She lay in a huddled heap, mud-stained, froth-splashed, with blood upon her flanks.  White-faced and speechless, Dot stood and looked.  It was the first time that tragedy had ever touched her gay young life.

She stooped at last, and with trembling, pitiful fingers touched the velvet muzzle.  Then suddenly indignation, fierce, overwhelming, headlong, swept over her, crowding out even her horror.  She stood up and faced Nap in such a tornado of fury as had never before shaken her.

“You brute!” she said.  “You fiend!  You—­you—­”

“Devil,” said Nap.  “Why not say it?  I shan’t contradict you.”

He spoke quite quietly, so quietly that, even in the wild tempest of her anger she was awed.  There was something unfathomable about him, something that nevertheless arrested her at the very height of her fury.  His manner was so still, so deadly still, and so utterly free from cynicism.

She stood and stared at him, a queer sensation of dread making her very heart feel cold.

“I should go if I were you,” he said.

But Dot stood still, as if struck powerless.

“You can’t do any good,” he went on, his tone quite gentle, even remotely kind.  “I had to kill something, but it was a pity you chanced to see it.  You had better go home and forget it.”

Dot’s white lips began to move, but it was several seconds before any sound came from them.  “What are you going to do?”

“That’s my affair,” said Nap.

He was still faintly smiling, but his smile appalled her.  It was so cold, so impersonal, so void of all vitality.

“Really, you had better go,” he said.

But Dot’s dread had begun to take tangible form.  Perhaps the very shock she had undergone had served to awaken in her some of the dormant instincts of her womanhood.

She stood her ground, obedient to an inner prompting that she dared not ignore.  “Will you—­walk a little way with me?” she said at last.

For the first time Nap’s eyes looked at her intently, searched her closely, unsparingly.  She faced the scrutiny bravely, but she trembled under it.

At the end of a lengthy pause he spoke.  “Are you going to faint?”

“No,” she answered quickly.  “I never faint.  Only—­only—­I do feel—­rather sick.”