“How did young Broom know, or suspect, there was anybody in the pond?” questioned Mr. Verner.

“I dun know, please, sir,” sobbed Dan Duff; “that was what he said as he runned off to it.  He asked me if I had seen any folks about, and I said I’d only seen that un in the lane.”

“Whom did you see in the lane?”

“I dun know who it was, please, sir,” returned Dan, sniffing greatly.  “I wasn’t a-nigh him.”

“But you must have been nigh him if you met him in the lane.”

“Please, sir, I wasn’t in the lane then.  I had runned into the field after a cat.”

“After a cat?”

“Please, sir, ’twere a cat, I think.  But it got away, and I didn’t find it.  I saw somebody a-passing of the gate up the lane, but I warn’t quick enough to see who.”

“Going which way?”

“Please, sir, up towards here.  If I hadn’t turned into the field, I should ha’ met him face to face.  I dun know who it was.”

“Did you hear any noise near the pond, or see any movement in its direction, before you were accosted by Broom?”

“Please, sir, no.”

It appeared to be of little use to detain Mr. Duff.  In his stead young Broom was called in.  A fine-grown young fellow of nineteen, whose temperament may be indicated by two words—­cool and lazy.  He was desired to give his own explanation.

“I was going home for the night, sir,” he began, in answer, “when I heard the sound of voices in dispute.  They seemed to come from the direction of the grove of trees near the Willow Pond, and I stayed to listen.  I thought perhaps some of the Dawsons and Roy had come to an encounter out there; but I soon found that one of the voices was that of a woman.  Quite a young voice it sounded, and it was broke by sobs and tears.  The other voice was a man’s.”

“Only two!  Did you recognise them?”

“No, sir, I did not recognise them; I was too far off, maybe.  I only made out that it was two—­a man’s and a woman’s.  I stopped a few minutes, listening, and they seemed to quiet down, and then, as I was going on again, I came up to Mrs. Roy.  She was kneeling down, and—­”

“Kneeling down?” interrupted Mr. Verner.

“She was kneeling down, sir, with her hands clasped round the trunk of a tree, like one in mortal fright.  She laid hold of me then, and I asked what was the matter with her, and she answered that she had been a’most frightened to death.  I asked whether it was at the quarrel, but she only said, ‘Hush! listen!’ and at last she set on to cry.  Just then we heard an awful shriek, and a plunge into the water.  ’There goes something into the Willow Pond,’ said I, and I was turning to run to it, when Mrs. Roy shrieked out louder than the other shriek had been, and fell flat down on the earth.  I never hardly see such a face afore for ghastliness.  The moon was shining out full then, and it daunted me to look at her.  I thought she was dead—­that the fright