“Let down a little. He’s stuck with it against the side.”
We slackened the rope, until the detective’s voice gave us the word again.
The rhythmic tugging continued. Something dark appeared, quite abruptly, at the top of the hole. My nerves leapt in spite of me, but it was merely the top of the detective’s head—his dark hair. Something white came next—his pale face, with staring eyes. Then his shoulders, bowed forward, the better to support what was in his arms. Then——
I looked away; but, as he laid his burden down at the side of the well, the detective whispered to us:
“He had her covered up with dirt—covered up....”
He began to laugh—a little, high cackle, like a child’s—until the coroner took him by the shoulders and deliberately shook him. Then the policeman led him out of the cellar.
It was not then, but afterward, that I put my question to the coroner.
“Tell me,” I demanded. “People pass there at all hours. Why didn’t my uncle call for help?”