"Then," she asked, "this? What about this?"
"A cryptogram, undoubtedly. It will tell us the exact place…. But don't you see that a clever thief wouldn't have needed that paper, he wouldn't even need to have known of its existence, to know that there was something hidden in the well? He could have used just the evidence I used. It's all available."
The candle was getting low, and a broad sheet of flame curled about it, throwing momentary brightness. Dorothy went to where the rain was making splattered pools below the window, and stared blankly at the vines.
"I think I see," she said, "about my father. He was — wet, wet all over, when they found him."
"You mean," said Rampole, "that he caught the thief at work?"
"Well, is there any other explanation?" Dr. Fell growled. He had been making ineffectual efforts to light his pipe, and now he laid it down on the table. "He was out riding, you know. He saw the rope going down into the well. We can assume that the murderer didn't see him, because Timothy went down into the well. So-?" He glared ferociously.
"There's some sort of room, or hollowed-out place," Rampole nodded. "And the murderer didn't know he was there until he came down."
"Humph. Well. There's another deduction, but let it go. Excuse me, Miss Starberth: your father didn't fall. He was beaten, coldly and viciously, and then thrown into the bushes for dead."
The girl turned. "Herbert?" she demanded.
With his forefinger Dr. Fell was making a pattern in the dust of the table, like a child drawing, with the utmost absorption. He muttered: