The Postmasters Daughter | Page 3

the depths, and fastened to an iron staple driven
firmly into the shingle.
He was so surprised that he spoke aloud.
"What in the world is that?" he almost gasped; a premonition of evil
was so strong in him that he actually gazed in stupefaction at a blob of
water and a quick-spreading ring where a fat trout rose lazily in
midstream.
Somehow, too, he resisted the first impulse of the active side of his
temperament, and did not instantly tug at the rope.
Instead, he shouted:--
"Hi, Bates!"
An answering hail came from behind a screen of laurels on the right of
the house. There lay the stables, and Bates would surely be grooming
the cob which supplied a connecting link between The Hollies and the
railway for the neighboring market-town.
Bates came, a sturdy block of a man who might have been hewn out of
a Sussex oak. His face, hands, and arms were the color of oak, and he
moved with a stiffness that suggested wooden joints.
Evidently, he expected an order for the dogcart, and stood stock still
when he reached the lawn. But Grant, who had gathered his wits,
summoned him with crooked forefinger, and Bates jerked slowly on.
"What hev' ye done to yer face, sir?" he inquired.
Grant was surprised. He expected no such question.
"So far as I know, I've not been making any great alteration in it," he
said.

"But it's all covered wi' blood," came the disturbing statement.
A handkerchief soon gave evidence that Bates was not exaggerating.
Miss--or is it Madam?--Dorothy Perkins can scratch as well as look
sweet, and a thorn had opened a small vein in Grant's cheek which bled
to a surprising extent.
"Oh, it is nothing," he said. "I remember now--a rose shoot caught me
as I went back into the dining-room a moment ago. I shouted for you to
come and see this."
Soon the two were examining the rope and the staple.
"Now who put that there?" said Bates, not asking a question but rather
stating a thesis.
"It was not here yesterday," commented his master, accepting all that
Bates's words implied.
"No, sir, that it wasn't. I was a-cuttin' the lawn till nigh bed-time, an' it
wasn't there then."
Grant was himself again. He stooped and grabbed the rope.
"Suppose we solve the mystery," he said.
"No need to dirty your hands, sir," put in Bates. "Let I haul 'un in."
In a few seconds the oaken tint in his face grew many shades lighter.
"Good Gawd!" he wheezed. At the end of the rope was the body of a
woman.
There are few more distressing objects than a drowned corpse. On that
bright June morning a dreadful apparition lost little of its grim
repulsiveness because the body was that of a young and good-looking
woman.
If one searched England it would be difficult to find two men of

differing temperaments less likely to yield to the stress of even the most
trying circumstance than Grant and Bates, yet, during some agonized
moments the one, of tried courage and fine mettle, was equally
horrified and shaken as the other, a gnarled and hard-grained rustic. It
was he from whom speech might least be expected who first found his
tongue. Bates, who had stooped, straightened himself slowly.
"By gum!" he said, "this be a bad business, Mr. Grant. Who is she?
She's none of our Steynholme lasses."
Still Grant uttered no word. He just looked in horror at the poor husk of
a woman who in life had undoubtedly been beautiful. She was well but
quietly dressed, and her clothing showed no signs of violence. The
all-night soaking in the river revealed some pitiful little feminine
secrets, such as a touch of make-up on lips and cheeks, and the dark
roots of abundant hair which had been treated chemically to lighten its
color. The eyes were closed, and for that Grant was conscious of a deep
thankfulness. Had those sightless eyes stared at him he felt he would
have cried aloud in terror. The firm, well-molded lips were open, as
though uttering a last protest against an untimely fate. Of course, both
men were convinced that murder had been done. Not only were arms
and body bound in a manner that was impossible of accomplishment by
the dead woman herself, but an ugly wound on the smooth forehead
seemed to indicate that she had been stunned or killed outright before
being flung into the river.
And then, the rope and the staple suggested an outlandish, maniacal
disposal of the victim. Here was no effort at concealment, but rather a
making sure, in most brutal and callous fashion, that early discovery
must be unavoidable.
The bucolic mind works in well-scored grooves. Receiving no
assistance from his