McMurdo read the note twice with the utmost surprise; for he
could not imagine what it meant or who was the author of it. Had
it been in a feminine hand, he might have imagined that it was
the beginning of one of those adventures which had been familiar
enough in his past life. But it was the writing of a man, and of
a well educated one, too. Finally, after some hesitation, he
determined to see the matter through.
Miller Hill is an ill-kept public park in the very centre of the
town. In summer it is a favourite resort of the people, but in
winter it is desolate enough. From the top of it one has a view
not only of the whole straggling, grimy town, but of the winding
valley beneath, with its scattered mines and factories blackening
the snow on each side of it, and of the wooded and white-capped
ranges flanking it.
McMurdo strolled up the winding path hedged in with evergreens
until he reached the deserted restaurant which forms the centre
of summer gaiety. Beside it was a bare flagstaff, and underneath
it a man, his hat drawn down and the collar of his overcoat
turned up. When he turned his face McMurdo saw that it was
Brother Morris, he who had incurred the anger of the Bodymaster
the night before.
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