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I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through

the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel,

where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a

yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin,

however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were

groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the

action to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and

gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the

day. Supposing that this unhappy young man's story were

absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely

unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between

the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when,

drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was

something terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might not the

nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts?