Chapter 14 - Page 2

by the
light, I could make out your father's head and beard. He looked as
if he were talking angrily and loudly to somebody. The window was
open. I was afraid to stop longer. In a sudden access of fear, I ran
across the shrubbery towards the garden-wall. To tell you the truth,
I was horribly frightened. Why, I don't know; for nothing had
happened as yet. I suppose it was just the dusk and the mean sense
of intrusion."

She paused and wiped her brow. I sat still, and listened eagerly.

"Presently," she went on, very low, "as I ran and ran, I heard
behind me a loud crash--a sound as of a pistol-shot. That terrified
me still more. I thought I was being pursued. Perhaps they took me
for a burglar. In the agony of my terror, I rushed at the wall in
mad haste, and climbed over it anyhow. In climbing, I tore my hand,
as you see, and made myself bleed, oh, terribly! However, I
persevered, and got down on the other side, with my clothes very
little the worse for the scramble. And, fortunately, I was carrying
a small light dust-cloak: I put it on at once, and it covered up
everything. Then I began to walk along the road as fast as I could
in the direction of the station. As I did so, a bicycle shot out
from the gate in the opposite direction, going as hard as it could
spin, simply flying towards Whittingham. Three minutes later, a man
came up to me, breathless. It was the gardener at The Grange, I
believe.

"'Have you seen anybody go this way?' he asked. 'A young man,
running hard? A young man in knickerbockers?'

"'N--no,' I answered, trembling; for I was afraid to confess. 'Not a
soul has gone past!'

"Of course, I didn't know of the murder as yet; and I only wanted to
get off unperceived to the station.

"I'd bound up my hand in my handkerchief by that time, and held it
tight under my cloak. I went back by train unnoticed, and returned
to my friends' house. I hadn't even told them I was going to
Woodbury at all. I pretended I'd been spending the day at
Whittingham. Next morning, I read in the paper of your father's
murder."

I stared hard at Aunt Emma.

"Why didn't you tell me this long ago?" I cried, in an agony of
suspense. "Why didn't you give evidence and say so at the inquest?"

"How could I?" Aunt Emma answered, looking back at me appealingly.
"The circumstances were too suspicious. As it was, everybody was
running after the young man in knickerbockers. Nobody took any
notice of a little old lady in a long grey dust-cloak. But if once
I'd confessed and shown my wounded hand, who would ever have
believed I'd nothing to do with the murder?--except you, perhaps,
Una. Oh