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
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.