"If you must know--I think both men committed suicide."

"You do!"

"It certainly is the most reasonable theory, in spite of all there is against it." Then he told of Nealman's financial disaster, of the Bible open on his desk, and all the other points he had to back his theory.

"And I suppose Florey swallowed his knife, and threw his own body into the lagoon!" Fargo commented grimly.

Slatterly turned to him, his eyes hard and bright. "We'll have your jokes to-morrow," he reproved him sternly. "Of course some one else did that. I've got a theory--not yet proven--to explain it, but I can't give it out yet."

"How do you account for Florey's body not being found in the lagoon?"

Marten asked quietly.

"I can't account for it. We might have missed it--I don't see how we could, but we might have done so. I'm going to have men dragging the lagoon all day, over and over again--until we find _both_ bodies."

"You are convinced that Nealman, too, lies dead in the lagoon?"

"Where else could he be? Did you hear that cry a few hours ago?"

"Good Heavens! Could I ever forget it? My old friend----"

"Was it faked? Could any man have faked a cry like that?"

"Heavens, no! It had the fear and the agony of death right in it. There can't be any hope of that, Slatterly."

The sheriff gazed about the little circle of white faces. No one dissented. That cry was real, and there had been tragic need and extremity behind it: we knew that fact if we knew that we lived.

Evidently the sheriff had completely given over the theory that he had suggested, half-heartedly, to me--that Nealman might have cried out to hide the fact of his own suicide.

"No man could have cried out like that to deceive, and then disappear.

No, Mr. Marten, the man that gave that cry is dead, in all probability in the lagoon, and there seems no doubt but that Nealman was the man."

"Yet you think he was a suicide."

"A suicide often cries out for help when it is too late to back out. But of course--I can't say for sure."

"You're mistaken in that, Slatterly." Van Hope drew himself together with a perceptible effort. "I've known this man for years--and in the end, you'll see it isn't suicide. He wasn't the type that commits suicide. He's young, he'd be getting himself together to meet that Blair gang that ruined him and chase 'em into their holes. The suicide theory is far-fetched, at best."

"It may be," the sheriff agreed. "I only wish there could be some light thrown on this affair----"

"There will be, Slatterly." Marten's voice dropped almost to a monotone.

"This is too big a deal for one man--or two men either. We've been talking, and we've decided to send for some one to help you out."

"You have, eh?" Slatterly stiffened. "If I need help I can send through my own channels--get some state or national detectives----"

"That's all right. Get 'em if you want to. The more the better. But you haven't got any help yet--even the district attorney has failed to come and won't come for at least a day or two more. We've got a private detective in mind--one of the biggest in America. His name's Lacone--you've heard of him. It won't be an official matter at all. Van Hope is hiring him--a wholly private enterprise. I know you'll all be glad to have his co-operation."

"If it's a private venture, I have nothing further to say," Slatterly told him stiffly. "When do you expect him?"

"He's operating in the Middle West. He can't possibly make it until day after to-morrow----"

"Twenty-four hours, eh?"

"It's after midnight now. Probably not for forty-eight hours."

"By that time, I hope to have the matter solved." Then his business took him elsewhere, and he strode away.

There was one thing more I could do. It was an obligation, and yet, because it was in the way of service, it was a happiness too. I climbed the broad stairs and stopped at last before Edith's door.

She called softly in answer to my knock. And in a moment she had opened the door.

She was fully dressed, waiting ready for any call that might be made upon her. And the picture that she made, framed in the doorway, went straight to my heart.

Her eyes were still l.u.s.trous with tears, and the high girlish color and the light of happiness was gone from her face. It was wistful, like that of a grief-stricken child. Her voice was changed too, in spite of all her struggle to make it sound the same. And at first I stood helpless, not knowing what to say or do.

"I came--just to see if I could be of any aid--in any way."

"I don't think you can," she answered. "It's so good of you, though, to remember----"

"There's no one to notify--no telegrams to send----"

"I don't think so, yet. We're not sure yet. Ned, is there any chance for him to be alive----"

"Not any."

Her hand touched my arm. "You haven't any idea how he died?"

"No. It's absolutely baffling. But try not to think about it. Everything will come out right for you, in the end."

I hadn't meant to say just that--to recall her to the uncertainty of her own future now that her uncle, financially ruined, had disappeared.

"I'm not thinking--about what will happen to me." She suddenly straightened, and her eyes kindled. "About the other--Ned, I'm not going to try to keep from thinking about it. I'm going to think about it all I can, until I see it through. Only thought, and keen, true thought, can help us now. I've had to do a lot of thinking in my life, overcoming difficulties. And there's no one really vitally interested but me--I was the closest relative, except for his uncle, that Nealman had. I'm going to find out the mystery of that lagoon! Perhaps, in finding it, I can solve a lot of other problems too--perhaps the one you just mentioned.

Uncle Grover was kind to me, he gave me his protection and shelter--and I'm going to know what killed him!"

I found myself staring into her blazing, determined eyes. She meant what she said. The fire of a zealot was in her face. "Good Heavens, Edith!

That isn't work for a woman----"

"It's work for anybody, with a clear enough brain to see the truth, and courage to prove it out----"

In some mysterious way her hands had got into mine. We were standing face to face in the shadowed hall. "But promise me--you won't go into danger!"

"I promise--that I'll take every precaution--to preserve myself."

CHAPTER XVII

As soon as daylight came the coroner held another inquest. Again the occupants of the great manor house, black and white, were gathered in the living-room, and the coroner called on each person in turn. Possible suspects had been numerous in the case of Florey's death: in regard to this second mystery they seemingly included almost every one in the house.