I was able to state positively that Major Dell and Van Hope were in their own rooms at the time, or such a short time afterward as to preclude them from any possible connection with the crime. I had seen the latter on his threshold: both of us had encountered Major Dell as he emerged from his room, his trousers slipped on over his pajamas. The court had to take each man's word in every other instance.

The coroner questioned Fargo particularly closely. I had testified that we had met him, at the lower hallway, fully dressed, and evidently the official attributed sinister importance to the fact. Fargo stood tightly by his guns, however, testifying that he sat in the same chair in the library from shortly after the dinner hour until he had heard the scream.

"What was the nature of the scream, Mr. Fargo?" the coroner asked.

"It was very high and loud--I would say a very frantic scream."

"You would say it was a cry of agony? Like some one mortally wounded?"

"I wouldn't hardly think so."

"And why not?"

"I don't think a wounded man could have uttered that scream. It was too loud and strong--given by a man whose strength was still largely unimpaired."

The coroner leaned nearer. "How further would you describe it?"

"It was a distinct cry for help," Fargo answered. "The word he said was 'Help'--I heard it distinctly. But it wasn't a cry of any one mortally injured. If anything, it was a cry of--fear."

"Where did it come from?"

"From the lagoon."

The coroner's eyes snapped. "If you knew it was from the lagoon why did you ask Mr. Killdare, when he encountered you last night, where it was from."

Fargo stiffened, meeting his gaze. "I wasn't sure last night, Mr.

Weldon," he answered. "I knew it was somewhere in that direction. When Mr. Killdare said it was from the lagoon I instantly knew he was right.

I can't say just how I knew. All the testimony I've heard to-day proves the same thing."

"No one wants you to tell what other people have testified, Mr. Fargo,"

the coroner reproved him. "We want to know what you saw with your own eyes and heard with your own ears and what you thought at the time, not now. To go further. You think that the cry was uttered by a man whose strength was unimpaired. A strong, full-lunged cry. Moreover, it was given in deadly fear. Does that suggest anything in your mind?"

"I don't see what you are getting at."

"You say it was a long, full-voiced cry. Or did you say it was long?"

"I don't think I said so. It was rather long-drawn, though. It's impossible to give a full-lunged cry without having it give the effect of being long-drawn."

"You would say it lasted--how long?"

"A second, I should say. Certainly not more. Just about a second."

"A second is a long time, isn't it, Mr. Fargo, when a man stands at the brink of death. Often the tables can be turned in as long a time as a second. Many times a second has given a man time to save his life--to prepare a defense--even to flee. Does it seem to you unusual that a man would give that much energy and time to cry for help when he was still uninjured, and still had a second of life."

"Not at all--under certain circ.u.mstances."

"What circ.u.mstances?"

"It would depend on the nature of the force. A man might see--that while he still had strength left to fight, he wouldn't have the least chance to win."

"Exactly. Yet if a man had time to call out that way, he'd at least have time to run. A man can take a big jump in a second, Fargo."

Fargo's voice fell. "Perhaps he couldn't run."

"Ah!" The coroner paused. "Because he was in the grasp of his a.s.sailant?"

"Yes."

"Yet he still had his strength left. Nealman was a man among men, wasn't he, Fargo?"

"Indeed he was!" Fargo's eyes snapped. "I'd like to see any one deny it."

"He wasn't a coward then. He'd fight as long as he had a chance, instead of giving all his energies to yelling for help--help that could not reach him short of many seconds. In other words, Nealman knew that he didn't have the least kind of a fighting chance. He was in the grasp of his a.s.sailant so he couldn't run. And his a.s.sailant was strong--and powerful enough--that there was no use to fight him."

It was curious how his voice rang in that silent room. Fargo had leaned back in his chair, as if the words struck him like physical blows. A negro janitor at one side inhaled with a sharp, distinct sound.

"It might have been more than one man," Fargo suggested uneasily.

"Do you believe it was?"

"I don't know. It's wholly a blank to me."

"Have you any theory where the body is?"

"I suppose--in the lagoon."

"Would you say that cry was given while he was in the water?"

"I hardly think so. I'm slightly known as a swimmer, Mr. Weldon--was once, anyway, and I know something about the water. A drowning man can't call that loud. Mr. Nealman was a corking good swimmer himself--nothing fancy at all, but fairly well able to take care of himself. When he disappeared the tide was running out--the lagoon on this side of the rock wall was still as gla.s.s. If Mr. Nealman, through some accident or other, fell in that lagoon he'd swim out--unless he was held in. At least he'd try to swim out. And by the time he found out he couldn't make the sh.o.r.e, he'd be so tired he couldn't cry out like he did last night."

"I see your point. I don't know that it would always work out.

Occasionally a man--simply loses his nerve."

"Not Nealman--in still water, most of which isn't over five feet deep."

"'Unless he was held in,' you say. What do you think held him in?"

Fargo's hands gripped his chair-arms. "Mr. Weldon, I don't know what you want me to say," he answered clearly. "I feel the same way about this mystery that I felt about the other--that human enemies did him to death. I don't think anything held him in. I think he was dead before ever he was thrown into the water. I think two or three men--perhaps only one--surrounded him--probably pointed a gun at him. He yelled for help, and they killed him--probably with a knife or black-jack. That's the whole story."

The coroner dismissed him, then slowly gazed about the circle. For the first time I began to realize that these mysteries of Kastle Krags were p.r.i.c.king under his skin. He looked baffled, irritated, his temper was lost, as gone as the missing men themselves.

Ever his att.i.tude was more belligerent, pugnacious. His lips were set in a fighting line, his eyes scowled, and evidently he intended to wring the testimony from his witnesses by third degree methods. Suddenly he whirled to Pescini.

"How did you happen to be fully dressed at the time of Nealman's disappearance last night?" he demanded.

Pescini met his gaze coolly and easily. Perhaps little points of light glittered in his eyes, but his pale face was singularly impa.s.sive. "I hadn't gone to bed," he answered simply.

"How did that happen? Do you usually wait till long after midnight to go to bed?"