The little birds
were beginning to hop and twitter in the leafless hedge, making the
only sound that was near and distinct. She crossed into the field
where she guessed the murderer to have stood; it was easy of access,
for the worn, stunted hawthorn-hedge had many gaps in it. The
night-smell of bruised grass came up from under her feet, as she
went towards the saw-pit and carpenter's shed which, as I have said
before, were in a corner of the field near the road, and where one
of her informants had told her it was supposed by the police that
the murderer had lurked while waiting for his victim. There was no
sign, however, that any one had been about the place. If the grass
had been bruised or bent where he had trod, it had had enough of the
elasticity of life to raise itself under the dewy influences of
night. She hushed her breath in involuntary awe, but nothing else
told of the violent deed by which a fellow-creature had passed away.
She stood still for a minute, imagining to herself the position of
the parties, guided by the only circumstance which afforded any
evidence, the trailing mark on the dust in the road.
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