“All true enough. But it don’t hold water. Where’s the knife? What became of the body? Suicides don’t eat the knife that killed them, lay dead, and then crawl away. You’ll have to do better.”
“He might not have been quite dead. Even doctors have been deceived before now, and crawled into the water to end his own misery. You can bet I’m going to keep the matter in mind.”
And it was a curious thing that this little handful of letters also set me off on a new tack. A possibility so bizarre and so terrible that it seemed almost beyond the pale of credibility flashed to my mind. I watched my chance, and slipped one of the “George” letters into my pocket.
The idea I had was vague, not overly convincing, and it left a great part of the mystery still unsolved—but yet it was a clew. I waited impatiently until the search was concluded. Then I sought the telephone.
A few minutes later a telegraphic message was clicking over the wires to Mrs. Noyes, in New Hampshire, notifying her of her brother’s murder and disappearance, and asking a certain question. There was nothing to do but wait patiently for the answer.
CHAPTER XI
In midafternoon the coroner called all the occupants of the manor house together in the big living-room. He had us draw chairs to make a half circle about him, and the sheriff took a chair at his side. He began at once upon a patient, systematic questioning of every one present.