“It doesn’t seem likely, unless the murderer gave a furious, downward stroke.”
The coroner paused again, and the room was utterly silent. “You have never heard any story, any legend—any set of facts connected with this house and its occupants that might explain the murder?”
Nealman waited a long time before he answered. “None that are the least credible.”
“You’ve got something on your mind, Nealman. Credible or not, I want to hear it.”
“I can’t bring myself to repeat such a silly story. All old houses have various legends. This particular legend is not worth hearing.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Nealman, but I must be the judge of that. You have the same as admitted that the story has occurred to your mind. What was it, please?”
Nealman’s voice lowered perceptibly, and he answered with evident difficulty. “A silly thing about a buried treasure—and a sea-monster—a giant octopus or something like that—that had been set to guard it—in the lagoon.”
As we waited we heard the faint scream of the plover on the shore and the lapping waves of the tide. Most of the white men were smiling grimly—the negroes were gray as ashes.
“You will admit that the tragedy of last night, the nature of the wound and the disappearance of the body, brought the legend forcibly to your memory?”