Why the word "murder" struck me with such a horror I cannot tell. I
stood looking at the old boatman like one struck with dismay. I was on
the point of saying that it was quite impossible, for I had been on the
Chain Pier last night, and had seen nothing of the kind. Some prudent
impulse restrained me.

"I would not go so far as to say it was murder," interrupted a sturdy
boatman. "I have been about here a great many years, and I have seen
some queer things. I should hardly call this murder."

"It was a life taken away, whether you call it murder or not," said the
old man.

"May be; but I am not sure. I have seen many mad with misery, but murder
is a rare thing."

"What is it?" I asked.

"A child, sir--only a little child," said the sturdy boatman. "The body
of a little child found drowned off the pier here."

Now, why should I start and tremble and grow sick at heart? What had it
to do with me? I knew nothing of any murdered child, yet great drops
formed on my brow, and my very heart trembled.

"A little child found drowned," I repeated; "but how do you know it was
murdered? It may have fallen into the water."