Williams’ questions were many and pointed, and it soon became evident to Bassett what he had in his mind—that her explanation of her actions did not account for the length of time she had been on the shore. Whether she saw it or not he could not tell; checked in her story she would answer patiently, reiterating her first statement that her stunned condition had robbed her of the power of thought or motion. But he was sure Stokes had grasped the trend of the query; he drew nearer, his flexible lips working, the hand hanging at his side clenching and unclenching. Once he assayed to speak, a hoarse sound throttled in escape. It pierced the strained attention she was giving her questioners, and, for the first time, she hesitated and fumbled for her words.
When it was over and they returned to the house, Stokes dropped to her side and drew her hand through his arm. She drooped against him; her narrow body looked nerveless, as if but for his support it would have crumpled and sunk. But he planted his feet with a hard defiance, each step drew a ringing echo from the rocks and he held his head high. Bassett, following them, noted his rigid carriage, and when he turned his profile, the wide nostril spread like that of a winded horse.
There was a ghastly lunch. The men of the law ate greedily and without words. Shine was ashamed that he had any appetite and tried to appease it with bread which he could extract from the plate in front of him without notice. There was almost no speech. Miss Pinkney, executing her duties with an automatic precision, did what waiting was necessary, and her voice, inquiring their needs and proffering second helpings, broke desolate expanses of silence.
When it was over Williams and Rawson took up the trail again. They were now going to direct their attention to the Point, especially the summer-house, from which a path led to the summit of the bluff whence Sybil had fallen. Bassett, who had hoped to get a word with Anne, was bidden to join them, and the three left the house step by step tracing the passage of the dead girl.
They began with the pine grove. Needles carpeted the ground, slippery smooth, a beaten trail winding between the tree trunks. Beyond it the path ascended the bare slope to the summer-house. “No place to hide here,” Rawson said. “The murderer, if Mrs. Stokes’ story is true, was either in the open or in the summer-house.” They paused, moved on, bent for a closer scrutiny of the dry grass, searched for an imprint in the pebbled walk. Secretive as the rest of the island, the way divulged nothing. Sybil’s light foot had made no faintest mark, she had gone to her death leaving no track nor trace.
The summer-house, a small, six-sided building, was covered by a thick growth of Virginia creeper that swathed its rustic shape. In four of its walls the vines, matted into a mantle of green, had been cut away to form windows. Framed in these squares sea and land views were like pictures brilliantly bright from the shaded interior. The other two sides held the entrances, one giving on the path that descended to the pine grove, one to its continuation to the Point. A circular seat ran round the walls and a table in the same bark-covered wood was the only movable piece of furniture. This was drawn up against the seat at one side. Rawson moved it out as the other two ran exploring eyes over the walls, the door-sills and the floor of wooden planking upon which a few leaves were scattered.
“Here,” he cried suddenly. “What’s this?” and drew from a crevice where the legs crossed, some scraps of a coarse gold material.
He held them up against the light of the opening—three short strands of what might have been the gilt string used to tie Christmas packages.
“What do you know about this?” he said, offering them to Bassett’s gaze.
Bassett looked, and Williams with craned neck and lifted brows looked too. They were exactly of a length, broken filaments of thread attached to the end of each.