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"
"That's a tragedy, anyhow," said the bishop.
"You are right. It is quite artistic--that touch about bringing back the
clothes, the empty shell, next morning. Quite artistic."
Mr. Heard looked up at the crag. It made him dizzy to picture some
human body hurtling through the air from that awful height. Its surface
was of perfect smoothness. But what struck him even more was the
uncommon and almost menacing coloration. The rock was bluish black,
spattered with maculations of a ruddy sanguine tint, as though drops of
blood had oozed out, in places, from its stony heart.
"I remember Mrs. Meadows telling me that story," he said to Keith.
"Isn't her villa at the back?"
"The very place. By the way, when next you call, would you please say
something particularly nice DE MA PART? I don't see half enough of that
lady, considering how much I like her. How is she?"
"Complains of headache."
"Headache? That is very unlike Mrs. Meadows. I always look upon her as
a bundle of steel springs. Perhaps something is wrong with the baby.


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