"Let's have the yarn," said Lord Roxton, munching at a sandwich.
"He was there away back in Queen Victoria's time. I've seen him myself. A long, stringy, dark-faced kind of man, with a round back and a queer, shuffling way of walking. They say he had been in India all his life, and some thought he was hiding from some crime, for he would never show his face in the village and seldom came out till after dark. He broke a dog's leg with a stone, and there was some talk of having him up for it, but the people were afraid of him, and no one would prosecute. The little boys would run past, for he would sit glowering and glooming in the front window. Then one day he didn't take the milk in, and the same the next day, and so they broke the door open, and he was dead in his bath —but it was a bath of blood, for he opened the veins of his arm. Tremayne was his name. No one here forgets it."
Chapter 8, The Land of Mist, Arthur Conan Doyle
No comments:
Post a Comment