His glance fell once more upon the villa of his cousin.  Strange!  There were two persons, now, walking along the edge of the cliff.  Mere specks. . . .  He took up his glasses.  The specks resolved themselves into the figures of Mrs. Meadows and Mr. Muhlen.

The devil! he thought.  What’s the meaning of this?

They were moving up and down, at the same spot where he had moved up and down with her.  They seemed to be on friendly terms with one another.  Excellent terms.  It looked as if they were laughing now and then, and stopping occasionally to glance at something, some book or other object, which the lady carried in her hand.  The devil!  At times his cousin seemed to be dangerously near the edge—­he caught his breath, remembering that sensation of giddiness, of gulping terror, with which he had watched the falcon swaying crazily over the abyss.  She was enjoying it, to all appearances.  Then, as they retraced their steps, it was the man’s turn to take the outside of the path.  He suffered as little as she did, evidently, from vertigo.  Laughing, and gesticulating.  The devil!  What were they talking about?  What were they doing there, at this impossible hour of the day?  Five or six times they went to and fro; and then, suddenly, something happened before Mr. Heard’s eyes—­something unbelievable.

He dropped his glasses, but quickly raised them again.  There was no doubt about it.  Muhlen was no longer there.  He had disappeared.  Mrs. Meadows was walking down towards her villa, in sprightly fashion, alone.

Mr. Heard felt sick.  Not knowing exactly what he was about, he began to shake Denis with needless violence.  The young man turned round lazily, flushed in the face,

“Where—­what—­” he began.  “Rather funny!  You saw it too?  Oh, Lord!  You’ve woke me up.  What a bother. . . .  Why, Mr. Heard, what’s the matter with you?  Aren’t you feeling well?”

The bishop pulled himself together, savagely.

“Touch of the sun, I daresay.  Africa, you know!  Perhaps we ought to be going.  Give me your arm, Denis, like a good boy.  I want to get down.”

He was dazed in mind, and his steps faltered.  But his brain was sufficiently clear to realize that his was face to face with an atrocious and carefully planned murder.

CHAPTER XXXIV

All the traditions of his race, the uprightness of ages of decent law-abiding culture, the horror of the pure for what is impure rebelled against this thing which nothing but the testimony of his own eyes could have made him believe.  He felt humiliated, as though he had received a blow; inclined to slink about and hide his face from other men.  There was contamination in the mere fact of having been a witness.  Oh, it was villainous.  How carefully the hour and place had been chosen!

And he himself, during that evening walk, had given her the idea.  He had said how easily a man could be thrown over at that spot.  Very simple. . . .