They all went stolidly, carefully into the barn. She slipped like a wraith in after them. Jethro turned and saw her. “Go back!” he said wrathfully. “Go back!” repeating it, with no wrath at all, but with exquisite pleading and gentleness. “Go back! Dear love, go back to the fire.” She looked up at him meaningly, knowingly. She began to feel what it was that stretched under those wet sacks. Dear love! It was the first time since her return that he had used those words--his favorite pet expression during the brief, agitated period of their engagement. There were frozen flakes of snow scattered over the orange silk rug which wrapped her from her chin to the toe-caps of her slippers. Her white face, framed in disheveled, dust-colored hair, was shadowy. They stood together at the door of the barn. At the back of them, the men, each with his lantern, made a patch of light. An evil spirit seemed to stare out of each corner of the vast raftered place--to stare down at the thing under the sacks. “I will not go back,” she said firmly. “I want to see. What is there?” She pointed with a steady finger. They had improvised a bench. They were laying it out--straightening it, with rough, pitiful reverence, as she could very well see. “What is there?” Her voice rang out in the lofty barn amid the perfect, unnatural silence which suddenly fell over the rest. Jethro only repeated, touching her coaxingly on the wrist: “Go back. I’ll come in and tell you presently.” She shook her head. “I stay. I mean to see.” The group of men, with rare delicacy, without a word or a gesture of recognition, clumped out, with heads down and heavy feet, trying in vain to tread lightly. Jethro and Pamela were alone. She shot forward and touched the sacks. “You mustn’t touch. I insist on your going in, Pamela.” But her hand was already on the soiled, wet sacking, and she flipped it down with fearful eagerness. “I knew, I knew,” she called out almost exultingly. “I felt sure.” She looked at the dead face for a long time, and very steadily. “I was driving home from the Flagon House,” Jethro explained in a husky voice and averting his eyes from those dead ones which would not close. “Something went wrong with the harness just as I got to the pond. I jumped down. By the light of the lamps. I saw--his arm was thrust out.” She didn’t speak. Her eyes were steady and luminous on Edred’s rigid face. There was a ticking sound as the water dropped from his sodden clothes to the floor. Then a quick clatter of a horse’s hoofs fell on their ears. Jethro said simply: “That’s young Buckman gone to Liddleshorn for Egbert. I told him to saddle the black mare.” She only looked and looked. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, her lips were steady. She looked from the handsome dead face to the shabby, drenched clothes, which were splintered all over with little spear-shaped fragments of ice.