About two hundred yards past my cottage the road, which from the village ran perfectly straight, took a sharp turn inland, leaving the coast abruptly on account of the greater stretch of marshland beyond.  It was towards this bend that I walked, and curiously enough, with every step I took some inexplicable sense of nervous excitement grew stronger and stronger within me.  The fresh morning air and the sunlight seemed powerless to dissipate for a moment the haunting terror of last night.  It was a real face which I had seen pressed against the window, and where had Ray been when he returned with sand-clogged boots and the telltale seaweed upon his trousers?  And later on, had I dreamed it, or had there really been a cry?  It came back to me with horrible distinctness.  It was a real cry, the cry of a man in terror for his life.  I stopped short in the road and wiped my damp forehead.  What a fool I was!  The night was over.  Here in the garish day there was surely nothing to fear?  Nevertheless, I, who had started out thirsting only to breathe the fresh salt air, now walked along with stealthy nervous footsteps, looking all the time from left to right, starting at the sight of a dark log on the sands, terrified at a broken buoy which had floated up one of the creeks.  Some fear had come over me which I could not shake off.  I was afraid of what I might see.

So I walked to the bend of the road.  Here, in case the turn might be too sharp for some to see at night, a dozen yards or so of white posts and railings bordered the marshes.  I leaned over them for a moment, telling myself that I paused only to admire the strange colours drawn by the sunlight from the sea-soaked wilderness, the deep brown, the strange purple, the faint pink of the distant sands.  But it was none of these which my eyes sought with such fierce eagerness.  It was none of the artist’s fervour which turned my limbs into dead weights, which drew the colour even from my lips, and set my heart beating with fierce quick throbs.  Half in the creek and half out, not a dozen yards from the road, was the figure of a man.  His head and shoulders were beneath the water, his body and legs and outstretched arms were upon the marsh.  And although never before had I looked upon death, I knew very well that I was face to face with it now.

How long it was before I moved I cannot tell.  At last, however, I climbed the palings, jumped at its narrowest point a smaller creek, and with slow footsteps approached the dead man.  Even when I stood by his side I dared not touch him, I dared not turn him round to see his face.  I saw that he was of middle size, fairly well dressed, and as some blown sand had drifted over his boots and ankles I knew that he had been there for some hours.  There was blood upon his collar, and the fingers of his right hand were tightly clenched.  I told myself that I was a coward, and I set my teeth.  I must lift his head from the water, and cover him up with