Mr. Deeling bent and touched the red patch hesitatingly with his finger. It was sticky. Paint apparently. Red paint. Very curious. But it could not be paint. What was it then? Once more he touched it with his finger. It was certainly very sticky, and a faint stale smell hung about it.
Mechanically he put his finger to his lips. It tasted salt. “It’s blood,” said Mr. Deeling to himself in a whisper. “That’s what it is—blood.”
And as he spoke there was once more a rustling—this time in the thicket of bushes behind him.
He whipped round and faced the thicket.
“Come out,” said something in his brain. “Don’t play those silly tricks.”
But no sound came from his lips, for he only thought that he called. Then he heard something, a voice that muttered in the shadow.
“Not yet,” it seemed to be
