THE DEEP-LAKE MYSTERY. Carolyn Wells

the work of a mischievous child, for preference, a little girl of twelve or fourteen.”

      “He’s thinking of Poltergeist—he’s got that sort of thing on the brain. Let me take a look at the body.”

      So Doctor Hart sat on the side of the bed and made his examination of the dead millionaire.

      “There is every symptom of apoplexy,” he said, at last, “and no symptom of anything else. Yet, I feel a little uncertainty. We’ll have to see what the autopsy says.”

      “When can you have that?” Ames asked him.

      “Very soon. This afternoon, probably. But it is important now to make inquiries as to conditions last night. You were here, Mr. Ames?”

      “Yes,—that is, I am staying here, visiting, you know,—but last evening I was out to dinner, with our neighbour, Mr. Moore here.”

      “What time did you get home?”

      “Not late; about eleven, I think.”

      “Had Mr. Tracy gone to bed then?”

      “No, he was waiting up for me. We went into the smoking room and had a smoke and a chat.”

      “What time did you retire?”

      “We went upstairs about midnight, I should say. I said good night to him on this floor and then went on upstairs to my own room.”

      “He seemed in his usual health and spirits?”

      “So far as I noticed, yes.”

      “You heard nothing unusual in the night?”

      “Nothing at all.”

      “What was the subject of your conversation last evening?”

      “Nothing of serious moment. He asked me who were at the Moore party and I told him. He was lightly interested, but cared only to hear about Mrs. Dallas, who is his fiancée and who was at the party.”

      “And Mr. Tracy was not there?”

      “No. He had been invited, but—well, he had had a little tiff with the lady, and in a moment of anger had declined the invitation. He was sorry afterward and wished he had accepted it. I begged him to go in my place, I would have willingly stayed home, but he wouldn’t hear of such a thing. Then I wanted to telephone Mrs. Moore, the hostess, and ask her to make room for him, too, but he wouldn’t allow that, either. So I went to the dinner, and Mrs. Dallas went, but Mr. Tracy stayed at home.”

      “Alone?”

      “I think so, except for his two secretaries. When I came home, he was in a pleasant enough mood, and I concluded he had thought it all over and straightened it out in his mind one way or another. I didn’t refer to the matter at all, but he asked me many questions about Mrs. Dallas, such as how she looked, what mood she was in and whether she said anything about him. Just such questions as a man would naturally ask about his absent sweetheart.”

      “All this properly belongs to the inquest,” Coroner Hart said. “But I want to get any side-lights I can while the matter is fresh in your mind. Do you know this room well, Mr. Ames?”

      “Not at all. I’ve only been in here once or twice in my life.”

      “Then you can’t tell me if anything is missing?”

      “No, I think not,” Ames looked around. “No, I don’t know anything about the appointments here. Or do you mean valuables?”

      “Anything at all. I think we can’t blink the fact that somebody came in here after the man was dead, and arranged all those weird decorations. Now maybe that somebody took away something as well.”

      “That I don’t know,” Ames reiterated. “I know nothing of Tracy’s belongings.”

      The man had been pleasant enough at first, but now he was resuming his irritable manner, and I wondered if he would get really angry.

      Keeley Moore was saying almost nothing. But I knew he was losing no points of what was happening, and I rather expected him to break out soon. He did.

      “Perhaps, Doctor Hart,” he said, quietly, “it might be a good idea to get Mr. Tracy’s manservant or housekeeper up here, and find out a little more about the appointments of this room. For instance, whether the orange and crackers were already here, or whether the mysterious visitor brought them.”

      “I was just about to do that, Mr. Moore,” the Coroner said, with such haste that I had my doubts of his veracity.

      But he rang a bell in the wall, and we waited for a response.

      The butler himself answered it, a rather grandiose personage in the throes of excitement and grief at the terrible happenings to his master.

      “Well, Griscom,” Ames said, with his habitual frown, “these gentlemen want to ask you some questions. Answer them as fully as you can.”

      “Was it Mr. Tracy’s habit to have a bit of fruit or a cracker in his room at night?” the Coroner inquired.

      “Yes, sir,” said the butler, and the sound of his own voice seemed to steady him. “He always had an orange or a few grapes and a cracker or two on the table by his bed, sir.”

      “And do you think this orange and these crackers are the ones put out for him last night?”

      “I’m sure of it, sir. I put them out myself.”

      “Then where is the plate? Surely you had them on a plate.”

      “Of course, sir. They were on a small gilt-edged plate. I don’t see it about.”

      “No, I don’t either. Had Mr. Tracy a valet?”

      “No, sir, he didn’t like a man fussing about. I attended him, sir, and a footman helped me out now and then; and Mrs. Fenn, she’s cook and housekeeper, sir, she looked after his clothes, saving what I did myself.”

      “Have you any reason to think your master would take his own life?”

      “Oh, Lord, no, sir. Begging your pardon, but he was very fond of life, was Mr. Tracy. I thought he died of a fit, sir.”

      “Probably he did. A fit or stroke of apoplexy. I begin to think, Inspector, we have no murder mystery on our hands after all.”

      “No,” said Farrell, shaking his head, “apparently not.”

      “Apparently yes,” said Keeley Moore, quietly. He had been looking at the dead man, and though he had not moved, but had stood for a long time, with his hands in his pockets, staring down at the still figure on the bed, I knew, somehow, that he had made a discovery.

      “Stand over here, please, Inspector,” he said, in his calm, matter-of-fact way.

      Farrell went and stood beside him, and Moore pointed to a very small circular object that shone like silver, though nearly hidden by the thick and rather long hair of Sampson Tracy.

      It was the head of a nail that had been driven into the man’s skull.