“Is—­is my father dead?” I asked, staring vacantly around the room, and upon the table where she had set out a breakfast.  She bent over the urn for a moment, and then, coming to me, took my hand and drew me to the sofa.

“You must be brave, Harry.”

“But what has happened?  And how did it happen?  Was—­was it sudden?  Please tell me, Plinny!”

She stroked my hand and shivered slightly, turning her face away towards the window.

“We found him in the summer-house, dear.  He was lying face downward, across the step of the doorway, and at first we supposed he had fallen forward in a fit.  Ann made the discovery, and came running to me in the kitchen, when she had only time to cry out the news before she was overtaken with hysterics.  I left her to them,” went on Miss Plinlimmon, simply, “and ran out to the summer-house, when by-and-by, having pulled herself together, she followed me.  By this time it had fallen dusk—­nay, it was almost dark, which accounts for one not seeing at once what dreadful thing had happened.  Your poor father, Harry—­as you know—­used often to sit in the summer-house until quite a late hour, but he had never before dallied quite so late, and in the end I had sent Ann out to remind him that supper was waiting.  Well, as you may suppose, he was heavy to lift; and we two women being alone in the house, I told Ann to run up to the vicarage or to Miss Belcher’s, and get word sent for a doctor, and also to bring a couple of men, if possible, to carry him into the house.  I had scarcely bidden her to do this when she cried out, screaming, that her hand was damp, and with blood.  ‘You silly woman!’ said I, though trembling myself from head to foot.  But when we fetched a candle, we saw blood running down the step, and your father—­my poor Harry!—­ lying in a pool of it—­a veritable pool of it.  Ah, Harry, Harry!” exclaimed Miss Plinlimmon, relapsing into that literary manner which was second nature with her, “such a moment occurring in the pages of fiction, may stimulate a sympathetic thrill not entirely disagreeable to the reader, but in real life I wouldn’t go through it again if you offered me a fortune.”

“Plinny,” I cried—­“Plinny, what is this you are telling me about blood?”

“Your poor father, Harry—­But be sure their sins will find them out!  Mr. Rogers is setting the runners on track—­he is most kind.  Already he has had two hundred handbills printed.  We are offering a hundred pounds reward—­more if necessary—­and the whole country is up—­”

“Plinny dear”—­I tried to steady my voice as I stood and faced her—­ “are you trying to tell me that—­that my father has been murdered?”

She bowed her head and cast her apron over it, sobbing.

“Excuse me, Harry—­but in such moments!—­And they have found the cashbox.  It had been battered open, presumably by a stone, and flung into the brook a hundred yards below Miss Belcher’s lodge-gate.”