shadow upon the venerable walls! And yet those strange, peaked
roofs and quaint, overhung gables were a fitting covering to grim and
terrible intrigue. As I looked at the deep-set windows and the long
sweep of the dull-coloured, water-lapped front, I felt that no more
fitting scene could be set for such a tragedy.

"That's the window," said White Mason, "that one on the immediate right
of the drawbridge. It's open just as it was found last night."

"It looks rather narrow for a man to pass."

"Well, it wasn't a fat man, anyhow. We don't need your deductions, Mr.
Holmes, to tell us that. But you or I could squeeze through all right."

Holmes walked to the edge of the moat and looked across. Then he
examined the stone ledge and the grass border beyond it.

"I've had a good look, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason. "There is nothing
there, no sign that anyone has landed--but why should he leave any
sign?"

"Exactly. Why should he? Is the water always turbid?"

"Generally about this colour. The stream brings down the clay."

"How deep is it?"

"About two feet at each side and three in the middle."

"So we can put aside all idea of the man having been drowned in
crossing."

"No, a child could not be drowned in it."

We walked across the drawbridge, and were admitted by a quaint,
gnarled, dried-up person, who was the butler, Ames. The poor old fellow
was white and quivering from the shock. The village sergeant, a tall,
formal, melancholy man, still held his vigil in the room of Fate. The
doctor had departed.

"Anything fresh, Sergeant Wilson?" asked White Mason.

"No, sir."

"Then you can go home. You've had enough. We can send for you if we
want you. The butler had better wait outside. Tell him to warn Mr.
Cecil Barker, Mrs. Douglas, and the housekeeper that we may want a word
with them presently. Now, gentlemen, perhaps you will allow me to give
you the views I have formed first, and then you will be able to arrive
at your own."

He impressed me, this country specialist. He had a solid grip of fact
and a cool, clear, common-sense brain, which should take him some way
in his profession. Holmes listened to him intently, with no sign of
that impatience which the official exponent too often produced.

"Is it suicide, or is it murder--that's our first question, gentlemen,
is it not? If it were suicide, then we have to believe that this man
began by taking off his wedding ring and concealing it; that he then
came