He paused for a moment under the shelter of an arched doorway, to place Charlie more comfortably under his arm and button his coat more securely, the while he watched the people in the principal thoroughfare struggling with the capricious attacks of the blast, which tore their hats off and sent them spinning across the road, and played mischievous havoc with women's skirts, blowing them up to the knees, and making a great exhibition of feet, few of which were worth looking at from any point of beauty or fitness.

And then, all at once, amid the whirling of the gale, he heard a hoarse stentorian shouting--"Awful Murder! Local Crime! Murder of a Nobleman! Murder at Blue Anchor! Latest details!" and he started precipitately forward, walking hurriedly along with as much nervous horror as though he had been guiltily concerned in the deed with which the town was ringing.

Two or three boys ran past him, with printed placards in their hands, which they waved in front of them, and on which in thick black letters could be seen:--"Murder of Lord Wrotham! Death of the Murderer! Appalling Tragedy at Blue Anchor!" And, for a few seconds, amid the confusion caused by the wind, and the wild clamour of the news-vendors, he felt as if every one were reeling pell-mell around him like persons on a ship at sea,--men with hats blown off,--women and children running aslant against the gale with hair streaming,--all eager to purchase the first papers which contained the account of a tragedy, enacted, as it were, at their very doors.

Outside a little glass and china shop at the top of a rather hilly street a group of workingmen were standing, with the papers they had just bought in their hands, and Helmsley, as he trudged by, with stooping figure and bent head set against the wind, lingered near them a moment to hear them discuss the news.
"Ah, poor Tom!" exclaimed one--"Gone at last! I mind me well how he used to say he'd die a bad death!" "What's a bad death ?" queried another, gruffly--"And what's the truth about this here business anyhow?
Newspapers is allus full o' lies.
There's a lot about a lord that's killed, but precious little about Tom!" "That's so!" said an old farmer, who with spectacles on was leaning his back against the wall of the shop near which they stood, to shelter himself a little from the force of the gale, while he read the paper he held--"See here,--this lord was driving his motor along by Cleeve, and ran over Tom's child,--why, that's the poor Kiddie we used to see Tom carrying for miles on his shoulder----" "Ah, the poor lamb!" And a commiserating groan ran through the little group of attentive listeners.
"And then,"-- continued the farmer--"from what I can make out of this paper, Tom picked up his baby quite dead.

Then he started to run all the way after the fellow whose motor car had killed it.