"No—I'm sure she didn't."
"Then you apparently believe that one woman of only ordinary strength could handle a body which taxed two strong men to lift! I tell you, Lester, Harriet Kingdon unaided couldn't have taken that body to the cellar and laid it in that grave. If Lucy Kingdon didn't aid her, who did?"
"I don't know," I answered. "But it wasn't who you think."
"Well, I hope it wasn't—but I don't see any other way out."
"You don't know all the facts, yet," I pointed out. "And I'm not so sure that Harriet Kingdon couldn't have handled the body alone. She didn't have to lift it, but just drag it down the stairs and tumble it into the hole. She could have done that, and removed the traces afterwards."
"But the body wasn't tumbled into the hole—it was laid in. Did you notice its position—the feet were toward the inner wall. Do you suppose she'd have dragged him by his legs?"
"She might have done anything, in her excitement," I persisted doggedly. "You can't reason about what a woman would do under such circumstances."
"Perhaps not," Godfrey admitted; "but Haynes was struck with the idea, too, that Harriet Kingdon must have had an accomplice. He believes, of course, that the accomplice was her sister. I let him keep on believing so—she can clear herself easily enough when the time comes; but just at present I want him to think he knows the whole story."
"Yes," I agreed, "that's the best—keep the bomb from bursting as long as you can."
"I'm not keeping it from bursting; but I can't explode it until I get it properly charged. I see you're hoping I never will."