Nothing was certainly known as yet of Lord Hartledon from the time Mr. Carteret parted company with him, to the time when the body was found.  It appeared that these Irish labourers were going home from their work, singing as they went, their road lying past the mill, when they were spoken to by the miller’s boy.  He stood on the species of estrade which the miller had placed there for his own convenience, bending down as far as his young head and shoulders could reach, and peering into the water attentively.  “I think I see some’at in the stream,” quoth he, and the men stopped; and after a short time, proceeded to search.  It proved to be the dead body of Lord Hartledon, caught amongst the reeds.

It was rather a curious coincidence that Percival Elster and his servants in the last search should have heard the voices of the labourers singing in the distance.  But they were too far off on their return to Hartledon to be within hearing when the men found the body.

The news spread; people came up from far and near, and Hartledon was besieged.  Mr. Hillary, the surgeon, gave it as his opinion that the wound on the temple, no doubt caused before death, had rendered Lord Hartledon insensible, and unable to extricate himself from the water.  The mill and cottage were built on what might be called an arm of the river.  Lord Hartledon had no business there at all; but the current was very strong; and if, as was too probable, he had become almost disabled, he might have drifted to it without being able to help himself; or he might have been making for it, intending to land and rest in the cottage until help could be summoned to convey him home.  How he got into the water was not known.  Once in the water, the blow was easy enough to receive; he might have struck against the estrade.

There is almost sure to be some miserable coincidence in these cases to render them doubly unfortunate.  For three weeks past, as the miller testified—­a respectable man named Floyd—­his mill had not been deserted; some one, man, boy, or woman, had always been there.  On this afternoon it was closed, mill and cottage too, and all were away.  What might have been simply a slight accident, had help been at hand, had terminated in an awful death for the want of it.

It was eleven o’clock before anything like order was restored at Hartledon, and the house left in quiet.  The last person to quit it was Dr. Ashton.  Hedges, the butler, had been showing him out, and was standing for a minute on the steps looking after him, and perhaps to cool, with a little fresh air, his perplexed brow—­for the man was a faithful retainer, and the affair had shocked him in no common degree—­when he was accosted by Pike, who emerged stealthily from behind one of the outer pillars, where he seemed to have been sheltering.

“Why, what have you been doing there?” exclaimed the butler.