"And you believe Marcia Lawrence met him here?"
"I'm sure of it. There can be only one explanation of that letter—it demanded a price for silence; threatened exposure—at the church itself, perhaps, unless the money was paid. Miss Lawrence flew here with what jewels and money she could lay her hands on at the moment, gave them to him, and he left; or perhaps she only promised to reward him if he'd keep the secret—it's doubtful if she had money enough at hand to buy him off, for his demands wouldn't be modest. At any rate, she got rid of him for the moment. But after he had gone, she reflected that she would always be at his mercy, that she could never be Burr Curtiss's legal wife. Suppose she should return to the house and carry through the farce of a marriage ceremony, she would only be preparing for herself an agony of suffering even more terrible than that which she was then enduring. The time would surely come when she would be unmasked before her lover. She could bear anything but that. She decided to end it—but to end it in such a way that her secret would be safe forever. So she lured him away upon another trail, then returned here and——" He finished with a significant gesture at his throat.
I thought it over; then I shook my head.
"It won't do, Godfrey," I said. "It won't hold together. In the first place, how did this fellow know about the Kingdons? If he met Miss Lawrence here, they must be his accomplices."
"I believe they are."
"Granting that, I don't believe Miss Lawrence killed herself. I certainly don't believe any such fantastic theory as that Miss Kingdon is working away there in the cellar burying the body. Why should she incur such a risk as that?"
"I've asked myself the same question, depend upon it, Lester."
"And found an answer to it?"
"Not yet."
"Miss Lawrence is on board the Umbria," I repeated, trying to convince myself.