"It's bad," said Peter, at last. "Bad;" and he stared out over the fields and the channel, like a steersman, who has the air of listening to talk in the boat while his eyes look miles out to sea. Then he said abruptly, "The boy's dead."
"Oh, Peter!" cried Archer, and was struck dumb. "Oh, my God, I'm sorry—I'm sorry for you." He could find no words, but the tone must have meant something, for the other suddenly lost his set composure, and covered his swarthy face and blue-scored forehead with his hands.
"I knowed you was a good feller all right," he said brokenly.
For a time neither spoke. It was Peter who began.
"I was up on the cliffs yesterday afternoon," he slowly declared, "and saw you. She heard me in the trees"—
"What!" cried Archer in surprise. And then with disappointment, "Well, I did n't think it of you, if"—
"Why," said the other, once more gazing off before him, "how was I to know, then?
