For several seconds I remained still, without speaking. The wave of
grief and anger that swept through me left me sick and shaken; I
could only stand there with clenched hands waiting until I could
control my voice.
"Who did it, Bascomb?" I said at last.
He came up to me, and, bad as I felt myself, I was almost shocked by
the sight of his face. It was like a horrible grey mask, twisted and
distorted with passion.
"Who d'yer think?" he demanded hoarsely. "There's only one devil in
the world who'd go fur to do a thing like that." He sank down on his
knees beside the body, and, sliding his hand under the big head,
lifted it tenderly from the grass.
"You mean Manning?" The words came out mechanically. I knew the
answer before I uttered them.
"Aye!" he muttered savagely; "that's who I mean. It was Mannin'
right enough--the blarsted, poisonin' 'ound." Very slowly he laid
down his burden and got up again on to his feet. "I'll be even with
'im for this," he added in a choking voice. "You mark my words.
I'll be even with 'im for this or my name ain't John Bascomb."
"When did it happen?" I asked.
He stared at me, as if only half understanding the question.
"When did it 'appen?" he repeated. "Why, las' night 'about eleven
o'clock. 'E were alive an' well at the 'alf hour--that I can swear
to. I was in the kitchen, an' I seen 'im pass the window--seen 'im
with me own eyes. I can't say exac'ly 'ow long arter it was when I
went to the back door; mebbe a matter o' five an' twenty minutes.
Any'ow, there 'e was, stretched out on the path, too bad even to make
a sound. Crawled back 'ome to die, 'e 'ad, pore beggar, an' me
inside not knowin' nothin' about it."
His voice trembled, and, raising the back of his hand, he brushed it
roughly across his eyes.