It is John Burrill!
Lying there, half buried still, with clenched hands and features distorted. It is John Burrill, dead.
Clifford Heath utters a sharp exclamation. He starts forward suddenly, and looks, not upon the dead face, but straight at the white thing that is still held in the hand of one of the masons. Then he snatches it from the man fiercely, looks at it again and more closely, and lets it fall from his grasp. For a moment all is black to his vision, and over his face a ghastly pallor creeps. Slowly, slowly, he lifts his hand to his forehead, rests it there for a moment, and seems making an effort to think. Then he drops his hand; he lifts his head; he draws himself erect.
“O’Meara,” he says, in a voice strangely hollow and unfamiliar, and pointing to the fallen handkerchief.
