But before he had gone more than six steps he paused. Some noise that had not reached him before threaded the sound of the storm. Someone was calling out—shouting—yelling. He stopped and listened.

‘O-o-oates! Hallo! Dick! Di-i-ick! Oo-o-oates!’

‘Hallo!’ yelled Oates and his voice sounded very desolate.

‘Hallo! Come—back—here.’

Oates broke into a lope. The voice had come from the front of the pub. He crossed the yard, passed the side of the house and the door into the Public, and came in sight of the front door. A tall figure, shading its eyes, was silhouetted against the lighted entry. It was Will Pomeroy. Oates strode out of the night into the entry.

‘Here!’ he said, ‘what’s up?’ And when he saw Will Pomeroy’s face: ‘What’s happened here?’

Without speaking Will jerked his thumb in the direction of the private tap. His face was the colour of clay, and one corner of his mouth twitched.

‘Well, what is it?’ demanded Oates impatiently.

‘In there. Been an accident.’

‘Accident. What sort of an accident?’

But before Will could answer Decima Moore came out of the taproom, closing the door behind her.

‘Here’s Dick,’ said Will.

‘Will,’ said Decima, ‘there’s no doubt about it. He’s dead.’

‘My Gawd, who’s dead!’ shouted Oates.

‘Watchman.’

II

Oates looked down at the figure on the settle. He had remembered to remove his helmet, but the water dripped off his cape in little streams. When he bent forward three drops fell on the blind face. Oates dabbed at them with his finger and glanced round apologetically.

He said, ‘What happened?’

Nobody answered. Old Pomeroy stood by the bar, his hands clasped in front of him. His face spoke only of complete bewilderment. He looked from one to another of the men as if somewhere there was some sort of explanation which had been withheld from him. Sebastian Parish and Norman Cubitt stood together in the ingle-nook. Parish’s face was stained with tears. He kept smoothing back his hair with a nervous and meaningless gesture of the right hand. Cubitt’s head was bent down. He seemed to be thinking deeply. Every now and then he glanced up sharply from under his brows. Mr Nark sat on one of the bar-stools, clenching and unclenching his hands, and struggling miserably with intermittent but profound hiccoughs. Legge, as white as paper, bit his fingers and stared at Oates. Decima and Will stood together in the doorway. Miss Darragh sat just outside the ingle-nook on a low chair. Her moonlike face was colourless but she seemed composed.