hardly put it in his mouth before he knocked out the tobacco.

Clearly, he was thinking hard, mapping out some line of conduct, and
the outlook must have been dark indeed, judging by his somber and
undecided aspect.

More than once he looked up at the attic window of the cottage which had
drawn his eyes before tragedy had come so swiftly to his very feet. But,
if he hoped to see anyone, he was disappointed, though, in the event, it
proved that his real fear was lest the person he half expected to see
should look out.

He was not disturbed in that way, however. Fish rose in the river; birds
sang in the trees; a water-wagtail skipped nimbly from rock to rock in
the shallows; honey-laden bees hummed past to the many hives in the
postmaster's garden. These were the normal sights and sounds of a June
morning--that which was abnormal and almost grotesque in its horror lay
hidden beneath the carriage rug.

To and fro he walked in that trying vigil, carrying the empty pipe in one
hand while, with the other, he dabbed the handkerchief at the cut on his
face. He was aware of some singular change in the quality of the sunlight
pouring down on lawn and river and trees. Five minutes earlier it had
spread over the landscape a golden bloom of the tint of champagne; now it
was sharp and cold, a clear, penetrating radiance in which colors were
vivid and shadows black. He was in no mood to analyze emotions, or he
might have understood that the fierce throbbing of his heart had
literally thinned the blood in his veins and thus affected even his
sight. He only knew that in this crystal atmosphere the major issues of
life presented themselves with a new and crude force. At any rate, he