WAITING FOR NO MORE, I turned and ran up the path to the shed. The two men on guard there stood aside to let me pass and, filled with excitement, I entered. The light was dim, the place was a mere rough wooden erection to keep old pots and tools in. I had entered impetuously, but on the threshold I checked myself, fascinated by the spectacle before me.
Giraud was on his hands and knees, a pocket torch in his hand with which he was examining every inch of the ground. He looked up with a frown at my entrance, then his face relaxed a little in a sort of good-humoured contempt.
“There he is,” said Giraud, flashing his torch to the far corner.
I stepped across.
The dead man lay straight upon his back. He was of medium height, swarthy of complexion, and possibly about fifty years of age. He
