How long it was before I moved I cannot tell. At last, however, I climbed the palings, jumped at its narrowest point a smaller creek, and with slow footsteps approached the dead man. Even when I stood by his side I dared not touch him, I dared not turn him round to see his face. I saw that he was of middle size, fairly well dressed, and as some blown sand had drifted over his boots and ankles I knew that he had been there for some hours. There was blood upon his collar, and the fingers of his right hand were tightly clenched. I told myself that I was a coward, and I set my teeth. I must lift his head from the water, and cover him up with my own coat while I fetched help. But when I stooped down a deadly faintness came over me. My fingers were palsied with horror. I had a sudden irresistible conviction I could not touch him. It was a sheer impossibility. There was something between us more potent than the dread of a dead man--something inimical between us two, the dead and the living. I staggered away and ran reeling to the road, plunging blindly through the creek. About two hundred yards further down the road was a small lodge at one of the entrances of Rowchester. It was towards this I turned and ran. The door was closed, and I beat upon it fiercely with clenched fists. The woman who answered it stared at me strangely. I suppose that I was a wild-looking object. "It's Mr. Ducaine, isn't it?" she exclaimed. "Why, sakes alive! what's wrong, sir?" "A dead man in the marshes," I faltered. She was interested enough, but her comely weather-hardened face reflected none of the horror which she must have seen on mine. "Lordy me! whereabouts, sir?" she inquired. I pointed with a trembling forefinger. She stood by my side on the threshold of the cottage and shaded her eyes with her hand, for the glare of the sun was dazzling. "Well, I never did!" she remarked. "But I said to John last night that I pitied them at sea. He's been washed up by the tide, I suppose, and I count there'll be more before the day's out. A year come next September there was six of 'em, gentlefolk, too, who'd been yachting. Eh, but it's a cruel thing is the sea." "Where is your husband?" I asked. "Up chopping wood in Fernham Spinney," she answered. "I'd best send one of the children for him. He'll have a cart with him. Will you step inside, sir?" I shook my head and answered her vaguely. She sent a boy with a message, and brought me out a chair, dusting it carefully with her apron. "You'd best sit down, sir. You look all struck of a heap, so to speak. Maybe you came upon it sudden."