Mr. Rogers directed them to fetch a hurdle. Then came the question
whither to carry the corpse, and after some discussion one of the
woodmen suggested that Miss Belcher's cricket pavilion lay handy, a
couple of hundred yards beyond the rise of the park, across the
stream. "At this time of year the lady wouldn't object--"

Mr. Rogers shuddered.

"And the last time I saw the inside of it 'twas at Lydia's
Cricket-Week Ball--and the place all flags and lanterns, and a good
third of the men drunk! Well, carry him there if you must, but damme
if I'll ever find stomach to dance there again!"

The men lifted their burden and carried it out into the lane, where
the rest of us pulled away the furze-bushes stopping he gate into the
park, and so followed the body up the green slope towards the rise,
over which, as we climbed, the thatched roof of the pavilion slowly
hove into sight.

"Hallo!" Mr. Rogers halted and stared at the bearers, who also had
halted. "What the devil noise is that?"

The noise was that of a sudden blow or impact upon timber.
After about thirty seconds it was repeated, and our senses told us
that it came from within the pavilion.

"I reckon, sir," suggested one of the woodmen, "'tis Miss Belcher
practising."