There were many similar bags there. It had been closely packed, and evidently with a view to counterfeit the exact weight of the dead man.
Poor Mackenzie was absolutely speechless. The coroner's man began to take copious notes; the police-constable gravely did the same.
Mackenzie at last found his tongue.
"I never felt more stunned in my life," he said. "In very truth, I all but saw the man die. Where is he? In the name of Heaven, what has become of him? This is the most monstrous thing I have ever heard of in the whole course of my life, and—and I attended the funeral of those bags of flour! No wonder that woman never cared to see me inside the house again. But what puzzles me," he continued, "is the motive—what can the motive be?"
"Perhaps one of the insurance companies can tell us that," said the police-officer. "It is my duty to report this thing, sir," he continued, turning to me. "I have not the least doubt that the Crown will prosecute."
"I cannot at all prevent your taking what steps you think proper," I replied, "only pray understand that the poor lady who is the principal perpetrator in this fraud lies at the present moment at death's door."
"We must get the man himself," murmured the police-officer. "If he is alive we shall soon find him."
Half an hour later, Mackenzie and I had left the dismal cemetery.
I had to hurry back to Harley Street to attend to some important duties, but I arranged to meet Mackenzie that evening at the Heathcotes' house. I need not say that my thoughts were much occupied with Mrs. Heathcote and her miserable story. What a life that wretched Heathcote must have led during the last six months. No wonder he looked cadaverous as the moonlight fell over his gaunt figure. No ghost truly was he, but a man of like flesh and blood to ourselves—a man who was supposed to be buried in Kensal Green, but who yet walked the earth.
It was about eight o'clock when I reached the Heathcotes' house. Mackenzie had already arrived—he came into the hall to meet me.