We talked the mystery over for half an hour, then went to bed for want of something more exciting.
CAREW is dead. Murdered.
It seems incredible that this horror should have come upon us; yet as I write, the poor fellow’s body “lies by the wall”—what a beastly gruesome way of expressing themselves these Welsh have!
Last night, after supper, Frank departed for the Jones cottage as usual; and Carew and I settled ourselves for a quiet game and a smoke, The tobacco canister went empty before we’d dealt half a dozen hands, so we cut to see who should go to the village for a fresh supply. I drew an ace, Carew a ten spot.
“Be back in half an hour,” he promised, pulling on his cap and jacket; “and if I catch that chap who’s been meddling with our diggings it’ll go hard with one of us.”
Poor Ca
