"What do you think? How can you account for it?" Kelson demanded, as appealing to the other's greater knowledge of the world.
It seemed to be with an effort that Gifford released himself from the fascination that held his gaze to the tragedy. "It is an absolute mystery," he replied, moving to where his friend stood.
"A woman in it?"
For a moment Gifford did not answer. Then he said, "No doubt about it, I should imagine."
"It's awful," Kelson said, driven, perhaps for the first time in his life, from his habitually casual way of regarding serious things, and maybe roused by Gifford's apathy. "We didn't like—the man did not appeal to us; but to die like this. It's horrible. And I dare say it happened while the dance was in full swing down there. Why, man, Muriel and I were in the room below. I proposed to her there. And all the time this was just above us."
"It is horrible; one doesn't like to think of it," Gifford said reticently.
"I cannot understand it," Kelson went on, with a sharp gesture of perplexity. "I can imagine some sort of love affair bringing the poor fellow down to this place; but that he should come up here and do this thing, even if it went wrong, is more than I can conceive. Taking the man as we knew him it is out of all reason."
"Yes," Gifford assented. "But we don't know yet that it is a case of suicide."
"What else?" Kelson returned. "How otherwise could the door have been locked. Unless—" He glanced sharply at the deep recess, or inner chamber, formed by the bartizan, hesitated a moment, and then going quickly to it, looked in.
"No, nothing there," he announced with a breath of relief. "I had for the moment an idea it might have been a double tragedy," he added with a shudder.