Bartley's grave glance went to Ranville's face. As the Englishman looked at him, to my surprise I saw the red fade slowly from his face. Very gravely he started to nod his head when there came Bartley's quick voice:
“What's the matter? Good Lord! Don't you see that the girl must have come up the path just about the moment the gardener was shot? Don't you see she must have walked right into the library, perhaps while the murderer held the gun in his hand—perhaps even at the very moment of shooting? She was there; the magazine on the floor was hers.”
Carter gave a sudden start, and Patton's face grew white. He was the first to stammer out:
“But where is she now?”
Bartley's eyes swept over the water of the lake and rested on the faint impression in the silt—an impression now almost smoothed out. Then, pointing to the bedraggled grass and the place where the bank was broken, he said slowly:
“She must have been at the front door just as the murder took place. Whoever did the killing dragged the girl down across the lawn and to the boat. Her feet, as they dragged along the grass, broke down the edge of the bank.”
He paused and there came a moment of horrified silence. It needed but one glance at Ranville to see that he agreed with Bartley. From Carter's expression as he gazed at the broken place in the bank, I could tell he believed the same. Only Patton seemed too dazed to comprehend what it might mean.
And then as our glances met, Bartley, for one of the few times in his life, uttered an oath and started to run toward the library. As the rest of us stood, hesitatingly, Bartley turned—turned to cry back at us in a voice that shook a little:
“For God's sake, hurry! We may be just in time to prevent another murder, and this time the most horrible one of all.”