Long experience of the moorlands and their nooks and crannies enabled Mallalieu to make his way down to the bottom of the quarry by a descent through a brake of gorse and bramble. He crept along by the undergrowth to where the body lay, and fearfully laid a hand on the still figure. One touch was sufficient--he stood up trembling and shaking more than ever. "He's dead--dead!" he muttered. "Must ha' broken his neck--it's a good fifty feet down here. Was ever aught so unfortunate! And--whatever shall I say and do about it?" Inspiration came to him quickly--as quickly as the darkness came into that place of death. He made an effort, and regained his composure, and presently was able to think and to decide. He would say and do nothing--nothing whatever. No one had witnessed the meeting between Stoner and himself. No one had seen the blow. No one had seen Stoner's fall. Far better to say nothing, do nothing--far best to go away and let things take their course. Stoner's body would be found, next day, the day after, some day--and when it was found, people would say that Stoner had been sitting on those rotten railings, and they had given way, and he had fallen--and whatever marks there were on him would be attributed to the fall down the sharp edges of the old quarry. So Mallalieu presently went away by another route, and made his way back to Highmarket in the darkness of the evening, hiding himself behind hedges and walls until he reached his own house. And it was not until he lay safe in bed that night that he remembered the loss of his stick. CHAPTER XVII THE MEDICAL OPINION