One group of
these clustered upon his left temple, another beneath his right eye,
and others extended from the chin down to the throat. They were
black, almost like tattoo marks, and the entire injured surface was
bloated indescribably. His fists were clenched; he was quite rigid.
Smith's piercing eyes were set upon me eloquently as I knelt on the
path and made my examination--an examination which that first glimpse
when Forsyth came staggering out from the trees had rendered
useless--a mere matter of form.
"He's quite dead, Smith," I said huskily. "It's--unnatural--it--"
Smith began beating his fist into his left palm and taking little,
short, nervous strides up and down beside the dead man. I could hear a
car skirling along the high-road, but I remained there on my knees
staring dully at the disfigured bloody face which but a matter of
minutes since had been that of a clean-looking British seaman. I found
myself contrasting his neat, squarely trimmed moustache with the
bloated face above it, and counting the little drops of blood which
trembled upon its edge. There were footsteps approaching. I arose. The
footsteps quickened, and I turned as a constable ran up.
"What's this?" he demanded gruffly, and stood with his fists clenched,
looking from Smith to me and down at that which lay between us. Then
his hand flew to his breast; there was a silvern gleam and--
"Drop that whistle!" snapped Smith, and struck it from the man's hand.
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