a dull thud
somewhere far down in the depths into which he had fallen. Then came
silence--deep, heavy silence--broken at last by the cry of a curlew
flying across the lonely moor.

Mallalieu was seized with a trembling fit. He began to shake. His heavy
frame trembled as if under the effects of a bad ague; the hand which had
struck the blow shook so violently that the stick dropped from it. And
Mallalieu looked down at the stick, and in a sudden overwhelming rage
kicked it away from him over the brink of the quarry. He lifted his fist
and shook it--and just as suddenly dropped it. The trembling passed, and
he broke out into a cold sweat of fear.

"God ha' mercy!" he muttered. "If--if he's killed? He shouldn't ha'
plagued me--he shouldn't ha' dared me! It was more than flesh and blood
could stand, and--Lord ha' mercy, what's to be done?"

The autumn twilight was creeping over the moor. The sun had set behind
the far-off western hills just before Mallalieu and Stoner had met, and
while they talked dusk had come on. The moorlands were now growing dark
and vague, and it seemed to Mallalieu that as the light failed the
silence increased. He looked round him, fearful lest any of the
shepherds of the district had come up to take a Sunday glance at their
flocks. And once he thought he saw a figure at a little distance away
along the edge of the trees, and he strained and strained his eyes in
its direction--and concluded it was nothing. Presently he strained his
eyes in another way--he crept cautiously to the edge of the quarry, and
looked over the broken railing, and far down on the limestone rocks
beneath he saw Stoner, lying on his back, motionless.

Long experience of the moorlands and their nooks and crannies enabled
Mallalieu to make his way down to the bottom of the quarry by a descent
through a brake of gorse and bramble. He crept along by the undergrowth
to where the body lay, and fearfully laid a hand on the still figure.
One touch was sufficient--he stood up trembling and shaking more than
ever.

"He's dead--dead!" he muttered. "Must ha' broken his neck--it's a good
fifty feet down here. Was ever aught so unfortunate! And--whatever shall
I say and do about it?"

Inspiration came to him quickly--as quickly as the darkness came into
that place of death. He made an effort, and regained his composure, and
presently was able to think and to decide. He would say and do
nothing--nothing whatever. No one had witnessed t