It is useless now to repeat all the varying conjectures rising in our minds, or which continued to engross the entire community for weeks thereafter. It became at once the favorite theory of many that young Moreland had perished by a stroke intended for some other person. In the mean time, the news swept through the village like a whirlwind, destroying the calmness of that Sabbath morning, tossing the minds of people more fearfully than the material tempest had tossed the frail leaves. Murder! and such a murder in such a place!--not twenty rods from the busiest haunts of men, on a peaceful street--sudden, sure, unprovoked! People looked behind them as they walked, hearing the assassin's step in every rustle of the breeze. Murder!--the far-away, frightful idea had suddenly assumed a real shape--it seemed to have stalked through the town, entering each dwelling, standing by every hearth-stone. While the inquest was proceeding, Mr. Argyll and myself were thinking more of Eleanor than of her murdered lover. "This is wretched business, Richard," said the father. "I am so unnerved I can do nothing. Will you telegraph to his parents for me?" His parents--here was more misery. I had not thought of them. I wrote out the dreadful message which it ought to have melted the wires with pity to carry. "And now you must go to Eleanor. She must not hear it from strangers; and I can not--Richard!--you will tell her, will you not? I will follow you home immediately; as soon as I have made arrangements to have poor Henry brought to our house when the inquest is over." He wrung my hand, looking at me so beseechingly, that, loth as I was, I had no thought of refusing. I felt like one walking with frozen feet as I passed out of the chamber of horror into the peaceful sunlight, along the very path _he_ had last trodden, and over the spot where he had fallen and had lain so many hours undiscovered, around which a crowd was pressing, disturbed, excited, but not noisy. The sandy soil had already filtered the rain, so as to be nearly dry; there was nothing to give a clue to the murderer's footsteps, whither he went or whence he came--what impress they might have made in the hard, gravelly walk had been washed out by the storm. A few persons were searching carefully for the weapon which had been the instrument of death, and which had been broken in the wound, thinking it might have been cast away in the vicinity. CHAPTER III. THE FIGURE BENEATH THE TREES.