There was no difficulty about finding the exact spot, even in those close coverts of fir and pine; a thin line of inquisitive sightseers was threading its way up the Shawl in front of him, each of its units agog to see the place where a fellow-being had been done to death.
But no one could get at the precise scene of the murder.

The police had roped a portion of the coppice off from the rest, and two or three constables in uniform were acting as guards over this enclosed space, while a couple of men in plain clothes, whom Brereton by that time knew to be detectives from Norcaster, were inside it, evidently searching the ground with great care.

Round and about the fenced-in portion stood townsfolk, young and old, talking, speculating, keenly alive to the goings-on, hoping that the searchers would find something just then, so that they themselves could carry some sensational news back to the town and their own comfortable tea-tables.

Most of them had been in or outside the Court House that morning and recognized Brereton and made way for him as he advanced to the ropes.

One of the detectives recognized him, too, and invited him to step inside.
"Found anything ?" asked Brereton, who was secretly wondering why the police should be so foolish as to waste time in a search which was almost certain to be non-productive.
"No, sir--we've been chiefly making out for certain where the actual murder took place before the dead man was dragged behind that rock," answered the detective.