It was the scene of the murder!
Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced
us to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered
man, whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of
terror in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years
of hardship and ill-usage which she had endured. With her was
her daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed
defiantly at us as she told us that she was glad that her father
was dead, and that she blessed the hand which had struck him
down. It was a terrible household that Black Peter Carey had
made for himself, and it was with a sense of relief that we
found ourselves in the sunlight again and making our way along
a path which had been worn across the fields by the feet of
the dead man.
The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the
farther side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket,
and had stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of
attention and surprise upon his face.
"Someone has been tampering with it," he said.
There could be no doubt of the fact.
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