a quicksand, in short; and will swallow a man in
three minutes.

"My mind," resumed my companion, "was soon made up. There is no
murder, thought I, where there is no corpse. So I propped Lydia in
the armchair, where she seemed as if napping, and went quietly
upstairs. I packed a small hand-bag carefully with such clothes as
she would need for a journey, descended with it, opened the front
door, went out to be sure the servants had blown out their lights,
returned, and hoisting my wife on my shoulder, with the bag in my
left hand, softly closed the door and stepped out into the night.
In the shed beside the garden-gate the gardener had left his
wheelbarrow. I fetched it out, set Lydia on the top of it, and
wheeled her off towards Woeful Ness. There was just the rim of a
waning moon to light me, but I knew every inch of the way.

"For the greater part of it I had turf underfoot; but where this
ended and the rock began, I had to leave the barrow behind. It was
ticklish work, climbing down; for footing had to be found, and Lydia
was a monstrous weight. Pah! how fat she was and clumsy--lolling
this way and that! Besides, the bag hampered me. But I reached the
foot at last, and after a short rest clambered out along the ridge as
fast as I could. I was sick and tired of the business.

"Well, the rest was easy. Arrived at the furthest spit of rock, I
tossed the bag from me far into the northern sand. Then I turned to
Lydia, whom I had set down for the moment. In the moonlight her lips
were parted as though she were still chattering; so I kissed her
once, because I had loved her, and dropped her body over into the
Quick-Boy Sand. In three minutes or so I had seen the last of her.

"I trundled home the barrow, mixed myself a glass of whisky, sat
beside it for half an hour, and then aroused the servants. I was
cunning, sir; and no one could trace my footprints on the turf and
rock of Woeful Ness. The missing hand-bag, and the disarray I had
been careful to make in the bed-room, provided them at once with a
clue--but it did not lead them to the Quick-Boy. For two days they
searched; at the end of that time it grew clear to them that grief
was turning my brain. Your father, sir, was instant with his
sympathy--at least ten times a day I had much ado to keep from
laughing in his face. Finally two doctors visited me, and I was
taken to a madhouse.

"I have remained within its walls twenty-nine years; but no--I