ns
says:

"If we had a spade."

"Not yet," breaks in Lawyer O'Meara. "Let's make sure that we have found
something before we cause any alarm to be given. Get some small boards;
we do not want a spade."

The boards are found easily, and they look to O'Meara again, all but
Clifford Heath, who stands near the mound gazing downward as if
fascinated. While O'Meara speaks, he stoops swiftly, and then carries
his hand to his pocket.

"Let's remove the--upper portion of whatever this is," says the lawyer
nervously, "and work carefully. This looks like--"

"It looks like _murder_," says Clifford Heath, quietly. "Pull away the
dirt carefully, men."

They are all strong-nerved, courageous men; yet they are all very pale,
as they bend to their task.

A few moments, and Mr. O'Meara utters a sharp exclamation, drops his
board, and draws back. They have unearthed a shoulder, an arm, a
clenched hand.

A moment more, and Clifford Heath, too, withdraws from his task, the
cold sweat standing thick upon his temples. They are uncovering a head,
a head that is shrouded with something white.

To Mr. O'Meara, to Clifford Heath, the moment is one of intense unmixed
horror. To the men who still bend to their work, the horror has its
mixture of curiosity. _Whose_ is the face they are about to look upon?

Instinctively the two more refined men draw farther back, instinctively
the others bend closer.

Swiftly they work. The last bit of earth is removed from the face;
carefully they draw away a large white handkerchief, then utter a cry of
horror.

"My God!" cries one, "it is _John Burrill_."

CHAPTER XXVII.

A TURN IN THE GAME.

It is John Burrill!

Lying there, half buried still, with clenched hands and features
distorted. It is John Burrill, dead.

Clifford Heath utters a sharp exclamation. He starts forward suddenly,
and looks, not upon the dead face, but straight at the white thing that
is still held in the hand of one of the masons. Then he snatches it from
the man fiercely, looks at it again and more closely, and lets it fall
from his grasp. For a moment all is black to his vision, and over his
face a ghastly pallor creeps. Slowly, slowly, he lifts his hand to his
forehead, rests it there for a moment, and seems making an effort to
think. Then he drops his hand; he lifts his head; he draws himself
erect.

"O'Meara," he says, in a voice strangely hollow and unfamiliar, and
pointing to the fallen handkerchief.