I had stepped out into the lane, and was staring over the stile into
the green gloom of the coppice, when I heard Plinny's voice calling
to me from the house, and I had half turned to hail in answer when my
eyes fell on the upper bar of the stile.
Across the edge of it ran a dark brown smear--a smear which I
recognized for dried blood.
"Harry! Harry dear!"
"Plinny!" I raced back through the garden, and almost fell into her
arms as she came along the path between the currant-bushes in search
of me. "Plinny--oh, Plinny!" I gasped.
"My dear child, what has happened?"
Before I could answer there came wafted to our ears from eastward a
sound of distant shouting, and almost simultaneously, from the
high-road near at hand, the trit-trot of hoofs approaching at great
speed from westward, and the "Who-oop!" of a man's voice, lusty on
the morning air.
"That will be Mr. Jack Rogers," said Plinny. "He brings us news, for
certain! Yes; he is reining up."
We ran through the house together, and reached the front door in time
to witness a most extraordinary scene.
Mr. Jack Rogers's tilbury had run past the house and come to a halt a
short gunshot beyond, where it stood driverless--for Mr. Jack Rogers
had dismounted, and was gesticulating with both arms to stop a man
racing down the road to meet him.
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