I set my teeth and advanced towards the dead man. John Hefford proved
at once that he was superior to all such trifles as nerves. He lifted
the body up and laid it for the first time flat upon the sands.

"My! he's had a nasty smash on the head," John remarked, looking down
at him with simple curiosity. "Quite the gent too, I should say. Will
you give me a hand, sir, and we'll have him in the wagon."

So I was forced to touch him after all. Nevertheless I kept my eyes as
far as possible from the ghastly face with the long hideous wound across
it. I saw now, however, in one swift unwilling glance, what manner of
man this was. He had thin features, a high forehead, deep-set eyes too
close together, a thin iron-grey moustache. Whatever his station in
life may have been, he was not of the labouring classes, for his hands
were soft and his nails well cared for. We laid him in the bottom of
the wagon, and covered him over with a couple of sacks. John cracked
the whip and strode along by the side of the horses. Blanche Moyat and
I followed behind.

She was unusually silent, and once or twice I caught her glancing
curiously at me, as though she had something which it was in her mind to
say, but needed encouragement. As we neared my cottage she asked me a
question.

"Why don't you want me to say that I saw this man in the village last
night, and that he asked for you, Mr. Ducaine? I can't understand what
difference it makes. He may have spoken to others besides me, and then
it is bound to be known. What harm can it do you?"