The bucolic mind works in well-scored grooves. Receiving no assistance from his master, Bates pulled the body a little farther up on the strip of gravel so that it lay clear of the water. “I mum fetch t’ polis,” he said. The phrase, with its vivid significance, seemed to galvanize Grant into a species of comprehension. “Yes,” he agreed, speaking slowly, as though striving to measure the effect of each word. “Yes, go for the police, Bates. This foul crime must be inquired into, no matter who suffers. Go now. But first bring a rug from the stable. You understand? Your wife, or Minnie, must not be told till later. They must not see. Mrs. Bates is not so well to-day.” “Not so well! Her ate a rare good breakfast for a sick ’un!” Bates was recovering from the shock, and prepared once more to take an interest in the minor features of existence. Among these he counted ability to eat as a sure sign of continued well-being in man or beast. Grant, too, was slowly regaining poise. “I hardly know what I am saying,” he muttered. “At any rate, bring a rug. I’ll mount guard till you return with the policeman. There can be no doubt, I suppose, that this poor creature is dead.” “Dead as a stone,” said Bates with conviction. “Why, her’s bin in there hours,” and he nodded toward the water. “Besides, if I knows anythink of a crack on t’head, her wur outed before she went into t’river.... But who i’ t’world can she be?” “If you don’t fetch that rug I’ll go for it myself,” said Grant, whereupon Bates made off. He was soon back again with a carriage rug, which Grant helped him to spread over the dripping body. Then he hastened to the village, taking a path that avoided the house. The lawn and river bank of _The Hollies_ could only be overlooked from the steep wooded cliff opposite, and none but an adventurous boy would ever think of climbing down that almost impassable rampart of rock, brushwood, and tree-roots. At any rate, when left alone with the ghastly evidence of a tragedy, Grant troubled only to satisfy himself that no one was watching from the house. Assured on that point, he lifted a corner of the rug, and, apparently, forced himself to scrutinize the dead woman’s face. He seemed to search therein for some reassuring token, but found none, because he shook his head, dropped the rug, and walked a few paces dejectedly. Then, hardly knowing what he was about, he relighted his pipe, but had hardly put it in his mouth before he knocked out the tobacco. Clearly, he was thinking hard, mapping out some line of conduct, and the outlook must have been dark indeed, judging by his somber and undecided aspect. More than once he looked up at the attic window of the cottage which had drawn his eyes before tragedy had come so swiftly to his very feet. But, if he hoped to see anyone, he was disappointed, though, in the event, it proved that his real fear was lest the person he half expected to see should look out.