faction of a court."

"With a little time. I'd have to go back to the records of my own old
home. What are you getting at?"

"What was your father's name, may I ask?"

"Henry H. Nealman."

"Older or younger than Grover Nealman?"

"Nearly ten years older, or thereabouts."

"Where was Mr. Nealman born?"

"In Rensselaer, New York. His father was named Henry H. Nealman, also.
He was a rug manufacturer. There was also one sister that died many
years ago--Grace Nealman. Are you satisfied that I am really his niece,
Mr. Weldon?"

"Perfectly." The coroner nodded, slowly. "Perfectly satisfied."

He dismissed her, but it came about that I failed to hear the testimony
given immediately thereafter. One of Slatterly's men that had been sent
for to help him drag the lake brought me in a telegram.

It was the belated answer to the wire I had sent to Mrs. Noyes, of New
Hampshire the previous day, and signed by the woman's husband. It read
as follows:

MY WIFE DIED LAST MONTH LEAVING ME TO MOURN. THE LETTERS
WERE UNQUESTIONABLY FROM GEORGE FLOREY DAVID'S BROTHER. THEY
HAVE BEEN BITTER ENEMIES SINCE YOUTH OVER SOME SECRET
BUSINESS. FIND GEORGE FLOREY AND YOU WILL FIND THE MURDERER.
I HAVEN'T EVER SEEN HIM AND SO FAR HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO FIND
PHOTO. IF ONE TURNS UP I WILL SEND IT ON.

WILLIAM NOYES.

CHAPTER XVIII

Grover Nealman had disappeared, and no search could bring him back to
Kastle Krags. The hope that we all had, that some way, some how he would
reappear--destroying in a moment that strange, ghastly tradition that
these last two nights had established--died in our souls as the daylight
hours sped by. Even if we could have found him dead it would have been
some relief. In that case we could ascribe his death to something we
could understand--a sudden sickness, a murderer's blow, perhaps even his
own hand at his throat, all of which were within our bourne of human
experience. But it was vaguely hard for us to have two men go, on
successive nights, and have no knowledge whence or how they had gone.

Of course no man hinted at this hardship. It was simply the sort of
thing that could not be discussed by intelligent men. Yet we were human,
only a few little generations from the tribal fire and the
witch-doctors, and it got under our skins.

Grover Nealman's body was not lying in some unoccupied part of the
house, nor did we find him in the gardens. Tel