The dogs were on the trail now. They followed them to the edge of the quarry. Here the bushes were trodden down, a man's cap was hanging on one close to the bottom. They all peered over into the still water, unnaturally black. Amies, the head keeper, raised his head. "It's twenty-five feet deep--some say forty, and a sheer drop," he declared impressively. "We'll have to drag it for the body." "Best take the dogs round the other side, and make sure he ain't got out again," one of the crowd suggested. Amies pointed scornfully to the precipitous side. Such a feat was clearly impossible. Nevertheless the dogs were taken round. For a few minutes they were uneasy, but eventually they returned to the spot from which their intended victim had dived. Every one was peering down into the dark water as though fascinated. "I thought as they come up once or twice before they were drownded," somebody remarked. "Not unless they want to," another answered. "This chap wasn't too anxious. He knew his goose was cooked." The dogs were muzzled and led away. One by one the labourers and servants dispersed. Two of them started off to telegraph for a drag. Stephen Hurd was one of the last to depart. "I hope you will allow me to say how sorry I am for you," Macheson declared earnestly. "Such a tragedy in a village like Thorpe seems almost incredible. I suppose it was a case of attempted robbery?" "I don't know, I'm sure," Hurd answered. "There was plenty of money left untouched, and I can't find that there is any short. The man arrived after the maids had gone to bed, but they heard him knock at the door, and heard my father let him in." "They didn't hear any struggle then?" Macheson asked. Hurd shook his head. "There was only one blow upon his head," he answered. "Graikson says that death was probably through shock." Macheson felt curiously relieved. "The man did not go there as a murderer then," he remarked. "Perhaps not even as a thief. There may have been a quarrel." "He killed him, anyhow," Hurd said brokenly. "What time was it when you first saw him?" "About midnight, I should think," Macheson answered. "He came down the lane like a drunken man." "What was he like?" Hurd asked. "Small, and I should say a foreigner," Macheson answered. "He spoke English perfectly, but there was an accent, and when he was asleep he talked to himself in a language which, to the best of my belief, I have never heard before in my life." "A foreigner?" Hurd muttered. "You are sure of that?" "Quite," Macheson answered. "There could be no mistake about it." Stephen Hurd mounted his cob and turned its head towards home. He asked no more questions; he seemed, if possible, graver than ever. Before he started, however, he pointed with his whip towards the shelter. "You've no right there, you know," he said. "We can't allow it. You must clear out at once." "Very well," Macheson answered. "I'm trespassing, of course, but one must sleep somewhere."