"No, Sir. It must have gone off somehow. Perhaps the trigger caught in the hand-rail when he was crossing the wooden bridge--and yet that seemed hardly possible--for he was lying on the big stone at the other side of the bridge, with his face downwards close to the water." "A horrible accident," said Leonard. "There'll be an inquest, of course. Will Blake give the coroner notice--or must I?" "Dr. Blake said he'd see to that, Sir." "And he is lying at the farm----" "Yes, Sir. We thought it was best to take the body there--rather than to bring it home. It would have been such a shock for my mistress--and the other ladies. Dr. Blake said the inquest would be held at the inn at Trevena." "Well," said Leonard, with a shrug and a sigh, "it's an awful business, that's all that can be said about it. Lucky he has no wife or children--no near relations to feel the blow. All we can do is to show our respect for him, now he is gone. The body had better be brought home here, after the inquest. It will look more respectful for him to be buried from this house. Mrs. Tregonell's mind can be prepared by that time." "It is prepared already," said a low voice out of the shadow. "I have heard all." "Very sad, isn't it?" replied Leonard; "one of those unlucky accidents which occur every shooting season. He was always a little awkward with a gun--never handled one like a thoroughbred sportsman." "Why did he go out shooting on the last morning of his visit?" asked Christabel. "It was you who urged him to do it--you who planned the whole thing." "I! What nonsense you are talking. I told him there were plenty of birds about the Kieve--just as I told the other fellows. That will do, Nicholls. You did all that could be done. Go and get your dinner, but first send a mounted groom to Trevena to ask Blake to come over here." Nicholls bowed and retired, shutting the door behind him. "He is dead, then," said Christabel, coming over to the hearth where her husband was standing. "He has been killed." "He has had the bad luck to kill himself, as many a better sportsman than he has done before now," answered Leonard, roughly. "If I could be sure of that, Leonard, if I could be sure that his death was the work of accident--I should hardly grieve for him--knowing that he was reconciled to the idea of death--and that if God had spared him this sudden end, the close of his life must have been full of pain and weariness." Tears were streaming down her cheeks--tears which she made no effort to restrain--such tears as friendship and affection give to the dead--tears that had no taint of guilt. But Leonard's jealous soul was stung to fury by those innocent tears. "Why do you stand there snivelling about him," he exclaimed; "do you want to remind me how fond you were of him--and how little you ever cared for me. Do you suppose I am stone blind--do you suppose I don't know you to the core of your heart?"