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They have entered the cottage by this time, and are standing in the tiny hall. "No; only twelve months,"—hastily; "say no more now: my mind is quite made up." "I don't quite know," says Mona, slowly, "but what Uncle Brian principally studies is—pigs!".
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Creeping through the grass behind this person, something was slowly drawing near to him. There was no noise, the watcher heard nothing; still he sat there, looking out over the prairie, and turning his head neither to the right nor the left. This thing behind him kept creeping closer, and presently it was so near it could touch the man. Perhaps then there was some little rustle of the grass, and the watcher turned his head. It was too late. A strong arm around his neck bent his head back, a hand covered his mouth, a long stone knife was thrust into his breast, and he died in silence. The fading light had kept people in the camp from seeing what had happened. "Dear me! what a terribly unpleasant young man!" thinks Mona, at her wits' end to know what to say next. Tapping her fingers in a perplexed fashion on the table nearest her, she wonders when he will cease his exhaustive survey of the walls and give her an opportunity of leaving the room. "Very well. I shall not ask you to break it. But I shall stay on here. And if," says this artful young man, in a purposely doleful tone, "anything should happen, it will——" "I have been there. And at Killarney, but only once, though we live so near.".
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