I came up that path, from the station, on Saturday
afternoon, intending to cross this bridge and go on to the house, where
I had private business. When I got to the other end of the bridge,
there, I saw the gap in the middle. And then I looked down into the
cut--there's a road--a paved road--down there, and I saw--him! And so I
made shift to scramble down--stiff job it was!--to get to him. But he
was dead, Mr. Collingwood--stone dead, sir!--though I'm certain he
hadn't been dead five minutes. And----"
"Aye, an' he'd never ha' been dead at all, wouldn't young Squire, if
only his ma had listened to what I telled her!" interrupted a voice
behind them. "He'd ha' been alive at this minute, he would, if his ma
had done what I said owt to be done--now then!"
Collingwood turned sharply--to confront an old man, evidently one of the
woodmen on the estate who had come up behind them unheard on the thick
carpeting of pine needles. And Pratt turned, too--with a keen look and a
direct question.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "What are you talking about?"
"I know what I'm talking about, young gentleman," said the man doggedly.
"I ain't worked, lad and man, on this one estate nine-and-forty
years--and happen more--wi'out knowin' all about it. I tell'd Mrs.
Mallathorpe on Friday noon 'at that there owd brig 'ud fall in afore
long if it worn't mended.
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