A small, demonstrative, dark man—the chief of detectives—stood a little apart from us, his eyes intent, his natural animation suppressed. We were watching the stooped shoulders of a police constable, who was angling in the well.
“See anything, Walters?” inquired the detective, raspingly.
The policeman shook his head.
The little man turned his questioning to me.
“You’re quite sure?” he demanded.
“Ask the coroner. He saw the diary,” I told him.
“I’m afraid there can be no doubt,” the coroner confirmed, in his heavy, tired voice.
He was an old man, with lack-lustre eyes. It had seemed best to me, on the whole, that he should read my uncle’s diary. His position entitled him to all the available facts. What we were seeking in the well might especially concern him.
He looked at me opaquely now, while the policeman bent double again. Then he spoke—like one who reluctantly and at last does his duty. He nodded toward the slab of gray stone, which lay in the shadow to the left of the well.
“It doesn’t seem very heavy, does it?” he suggested, in an undertone.