Warner was on his knees in a moment, fumbling at the old man's collar

to loosen it, but Halsey caught his hand.

"Let him alone?" he said. "You can't help him; he is dead."

We stood there, each avoiding the other's eyes; we spoke low and

reverently in the presence of death, and we tacitly avoided any mention

of the suspicion that was in every mind. When Mr. Jamieson had

finished his cursory examination, he got up and dusted the knees of his

trousers.

"There is no sign of injury," he said, and I know I, for one, drew a

long breath of relief. "From what Warner says and from his hiding in

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the closet, I should say he was scared to death. Fright and a weak

heart, together."

"But what could have done it?" Gertrude asked. "He was all right this

evening at dinner. Warner, what did he say when you found him on the

porch?"

Warner looked shaken: his honest, boyish face was colorless.

"Just what I told you, Miss Innes. He'd been reading the paper

down-stairs; I had put up the car, and, feeling sleepy, I came down to

the lodge to go to bed. As I went up-stairs, Thomas put down the paper

and, taking his pipe, went out on the porch. Then I heard an

exclamation from him."

"What did he say?" demanded Jamieson.

"I couldn't hear, but his voice was strange; it sounded startled. I

waited for him to call out again, but he did not, so I went

down-stairs. He was sitting on the porch step, looking straight ahead,

as if he saw something among the trees across the road. And he kept

mumbling about having seen a ghost. He looked queer, and I tried to

get him inside, but he wouldn't move. Then I thought I'd better go up

to the house."

"Didn't he say anything else you could understand?" I asked.

"He said something about the grave giving up its dead."

Mr. Jamieson was going through the old man's pockets, and Gertrude was

composing his arms, folding them across his white shirt-bosom, always

so spotless.

Mr. Jamieson looked up at me.

"What was that you said to me, Miss Innes, about the murder at the

house being a beginning and not an end? By jove, I believe you were

right!"

In the course of his investigations the detective had come to the inner

pocket of the dead butler's black coat. Here he found some things that

interested him. One was a small flat key, with a red cord tied to it,

and the other was a bit of white paper, on which was written something

in Thomas' cramped hand. Mr. Jamieson read it: then he gave it to me.

It was an address in fresh ink-LUCIEN WALLACE, 14 Elm Street, Richfield.




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