I

THE DEATH OF BLACK DIAMOND




CHAPTER I


THE MAN ON THE GREY

The man on the grey was in a hurry.

The stab of his backward heels; the shake and swirl of his bridle-hand;
the flog of his arm in time with the horse's stride, told their own tale.

A huge fellow, his face was red and round as a November sun. Hat and
wig were gone; and his once white neck-cloth was soaked with blood.

He came over the crest of the Downs at a lurching gallop; down
the ragged rut-worn lane, the dusty convolvuluses glimmering up at
him in the dusk; past the squat-spired Church in the high Churchyard
among the sycamores; down the rough and twisted Highstreet of Newhaven
in the chill of that August evening, as no man had ever come before.

A bevy of smoke-dimmed men in the bar of the Bridge, discussing in
awed whispers last night's affair of the Revenue cutter off Darby's
Hole, hushed suddenly at the clatter and rushed out as he stormed past.
He paid no heed. Those staring eyes saw nothing but the brown street