she heard a sound like the report of a gun, saw the
crowd break up in violent confusion, and then cluster together again in
a dense mass.

"What could it mean?" Beatrice wondered.

As the thought crossed her mind, she perceived two men running towards
her with all their speed, followed by a woman. Three minutes more and
she saw that the woman was Elizabeth.

The men were passing her now.

"What is it?" she cried.

"_Murder!_" they answered with one voice, and sped on towards Bryngelly.

Another moment and Elizabeth was at hand, horror written on her pale
face.

Beatrice clutched at her. "_Who_ is it?" she cried.

"Mr. Bingham," gasped her sister. "Go and help; he's shot dead!" And she
too was gone.

Beatrice's knees loosened, her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth;
the solid earth spun round and round. "Geoffrey killed! Geoffrey
killed!" she cried in her heart; but though her ears seemed to hear the
sound of them, no words came from her lips. "Oh, what should she do?
Where should she hide herself in her grief?"

A few yards from the path grew a stunted tree with a large flat stone
at its root. Thither Beatrice staggered and sank upon the stone, while
still the solid earth spun round and round.

Presently her mind cleared a little, and a keener pang of pain shot
through her soul. She had been stunned at first, now she felt.

"Perhaps it was not true; perhaps Elizabeth had been mistaken or had
only said it to torment her." She rose. She flung herself upon her
knees, there by the stone, and prayed, this first time for many
years--she prayed with all her soul. "Oh, God, if Thou art, spare him
his life and me this agony." In her dreadful pangs of grief her faith
was thus re-born, and, as all human beings must in their hour of mortal
agony, Beatrice realised her dependence on the Unseen. She rose, and
weak with emotion sank back on to the stone. The people were streaming
past her now, talking excitedly. Somebody came up to her and stood over
her.

Oh, Heaven, it was Geoffrey!

"Is it you?" she gasped. "Elizabeth said that you were murdered."

"No, no. It was not I; it is that poor fellow Johnson, the auctioneer.
Jones shot him. I was standing next him. I suppose your sister thought
that I fell. He was not unlike me, poor fellow."

Beatrice looked at him, went red, went white, then burst into a flood of
tears.

A strange pang seized upon his heart. It thrilled through him, shaking
him to the core. Why