E. Nesbit

“ She would be dancing to-night. Of course she knew nothing of that thing in the shrubbery. She would be dancing. He would see her at the theatre—go home with her, tell her the horrible thing—very quietly and gently and carefully he would tell her—and together they would tell the police, and go through with whatever of horror of inquiries and inquests had to be gone through. If only she had not already found it out! If only she was not already bearing, alone, some unknown horror of fear and bewilderment! ”

“ It was difficult to cover the thing again—the soil and the leaves were scattered—he had to collect other leaves from the further stretch of the gully: he scratched mould up with his fingers and laid it with the leaves—more leaves, more mould. He trampled the heap firm—laid loose leaves over all—and, at last, a little breathless, got away.
The river was waiting for him, lying quiet in the moonlight, the river on which he had first seen her. He dipped his hands in the water again and again.
“My God!” he said, and “My God!” many times. ”

“ No man cares to run the risk of being found at dead of night in a shrubbery where he has no business in the company of a dead body. It is much safer to go openly to the police and explain exactly how you came to be in that shrubbery, and what you have found there. This is safer for you, and more dangerous for the murderer.
For a few hours afterwards Mr. Templar was thoroughly proud of the self-possession which, in face of a really nerve-shaking incident, enabled him to spend a short time in consideration of all the circumstances before he should set off for Tonbridge and the police station. ”

“ Templar shaved and dressed and went to town. He went to that address from which Mrs. Clitheroe had written of the pneumonia death—because the heart had suggested the radiant idea that perhaps that thing in the wood was not Sandra’s husband at all, but only someone with Sandra’s husband’s pocket-book in his possession. Why—that man himself might be the murderer, and the victim might be—oh, anyone! Such a man would have a host of enemies. ”

“ Excellent reader, never write letters in a hurry—cruel letters, that is. Love-letters you may pour out red-hot and post before the ink is dry. But not cruel letters. Give yourself a day or two for reflection. Life is a rum thing. ”