Scarsdale was his name.
Then Orlando explained. "It's not what you think," he said. Then he told
the story--such as there was to tell--of what had happened during the
last few moments.
Scarsdale climbed up into the wagon, struck a light, looked at the body
of Mazarine, at his face, and then lifted up the beard and examined the
neck. There were finger-marks in the flesh.
"So, that's it," he said. "Strangled! He seems to have took it easy,
sittin' there like that," he added as he climbed down.
"I don't understand it," remarked Orlando. "As you say, it's weird, his
sitting there like that with the reins in his hands. I don't understand
it!"
"I saw you getting down from the wagon," remarked Scarsdale meaningly.
"Say, do you really believe--?" began Orlando without agitation, but with
a sudden sense of his own false position.
"It ain't a matter of belief," the other declared. "If there's an
inquest, I've got to tell what I've seen. You know that, don't you?"
"That's all right," replied Orlando. "You've got to tell what you've
seen, and so have I. I guess the truth will out. Come, let's move him on
to Tralee. We'll lay him down in the bottom of the wagon, and I'll lead
his horses with a halter. . . . No," he added, changing his mind, "you
lead my horses, and I'll drive him home."
A moment afterwards, as the procession made its way to Tralee, Scarsdale
said to himself:
"He must have nerves like iron to drive Mazarine home, if he killed him.
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