She lay within the porch, while at her side was a basket overturned, its
contents scattered about, as though she had been holding it in her lap at
the time of the accident.
Was it an accident?
As soon as he could recover his self-possession, August Bordine sat down
his gun and bent over the prostrate girl.
There was a subdued horror in his eyes as he gazed.
Blood had trickled out in a little pool from a wound in her neck, that
wound had proved the death of poor Victoria Vane.
Who had made it?
Suicide!
This was the young man's first thought--yet he soon convinced himself
that this was not likely.
A letter, torn and blood-stained, lay near. August picked it from the
ground and examined it. It proved to be from a gentleman, and was written
in a friendly, not to say lover-like strain. At the bottom was signed a
name, "A. Bor----"
The latter part of the name was completely obliterated by a blot of
blood.
While the young engineer stood in an attitude of shocked irresolution, a
step sounded on the gravel behind him.
He turned to look into the face of a young man whose countenance showed
resemblance to the dead girl.
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