“Miss Moyat,” I said hoarsely, “can’t you forget that you saw this man?”

“Why?” she asked bewildered.

“I don’t want to be dragged into it,” I answered, glancing nervously over my shoulder along the road.  “Don’t you see that if he is just found here with his head and shoulders in the creek, and nothing is known about him, they will take it that he has been washed up by the sea in the storm last night?  But if it is known that he came from the land, that he was seen in the village asking for me—­then there will be many things said.”

“I don’t see as it matters,” she answered, puzzled.  “He didn’t come, and you don’t know anything about him.  But, of course, if you want me to say nothing—­”

She paused.  I clutched her arm.

“Miss Moyat,” I said, “I have strong reasons for not wishing to be brought into this.”

“All right,” she said, dropping her voice.  “I will do—­as you ask.”

There was an absurd meaning in her little side-glance, which at another time would have put me on my guard.  But just then I was engrossed with my own vague fears.  I forgot even to remove my hand from her arm.  So we were standing, when a moment later the silence was broken by the sound of a galloping horse coming fast across the marshes.  We started aside.  Lady Angela reined in a great bay mare a few yards away from us.  Her habit was all bespattered with mud.  She had evidently ridden across country from one of the private entrances to the Park.

“What is this terrible story, Mr. Ducaine?” she exclaimed.  “Is there really a shipwreck?  I can see no signs of it.”

“No shipwreck that I know of, Lady Angela,” I answered.  “There is a dead man here—­one only.  I have heard of nothing else.”

Her eyes followed my outstretched hand, and she saw the body half on the sands, half on the marsh.  She shivered a little.

“Poor fellow!” she exclaimed.  “Is it any one from the village, Mr. Ducaine?”

“It is a stranger, Lady Angela,” I answered.  “We think that his body must have been washed in from the sea.”

She measured the distance from high-water mark with a glance, and shook her head.

“Too far away,” she declared.

“There was a wild sea last night,” I answered, “and such a tide as I have never seen here before.”

“What are you doing with it?” she asked, pointing with her whip.

“John Hefford is bringing a wagon,” I answered.  “I suppose he had better take it to the police station.”

She wheeled her horse round.

“I am glad that it is no worse,” she said.  “There are reports going about of a terrible shipwreck.  I trust that you are feeling better, Mr. Ducaine?”

“I am quite recovered—­thanks to your kindness and Colonel Ray’s,” I answered.

She nodded.

“You will hear from my father during the day,” she said.  “He is quite anxious to come to your lecture.  Good-morning.”