“No clothes on?” demanded Mr. Sikes. “Then it can’t be Ollie. He had his new suit on.” Mr. Link hesitated. “That detective says the chances are that whoever did the killing stripped the body and burnt the clothes,” he said slowly, weightily. A longer silence than before. Mr. Link’s listeners seemed turned to stone. Finally Mr. Sikes moistened his stiff lips. “What do you mean, Silas, by—by killing?” “If you feel sort of squeamish, Serepty,” began Mr. Link considerately, “maybe you’d better—” “I’m not squeamish,” retorted the redoubtable little woman. “Go on.” “The top of the skull is smashed in—split wide open,” announced the newsbearer, in a hushed, sepulchral voice. Then, apparently eager to get it over with, he hurried on: “Couldn’t have died a natural death. Couldn’t have committed suicide. Somebody hit him over the head—” “Say _it_,” corrected Mr. Sikes. “You don’t know whether it’s a man or woman.” “—with a heavy instrument. Most likely an ax or a hatchet. Buried six or eight feet deep in a mudhole. They pulled up a hand first with one of them poles with a hook on it. Then they set to work scooping out the hole with shovels. Wasn’t long before they got down where they could—” “Don’t tell any more—don’t tell any more!” quaked Mrs. Grimes, covering her eyes. “Lean on me, Serepty,” said Mr. Sikes, who, if anything, was weaker than she. “They’ve sent for the police and for my men,” went on Mr. Link. “And they’re telephoning for the sheriff and coroner and everybody else. Why, the news must be all over town by this time. Look at the automobiles rushing down that way—and people running on foot—and—oh, my Lord, Joe! If it should turn out to be Ollie it will—it will look mighty bad for Oliver October.” Mr. Sikes was thoughtful. “Did you get a good look at it, Silas?” “I did.” “Wouldn’t you recognize Ollie’s Adam’s apple if you saw it—dead or alive?” “Not if it had been dead as long as this one has. Your Adam’s apple ain’t a bone, Joe. It’s a cartilage.” “A cartridge?” “I guess we’d better tell Oliver,” said Mrs. Grimes briskly. She had, as usual, risen to the occasion. CHAPTER XXIII THE BREWING OF THE STORM The news spread like wildfire. Before nightfall every one in Rumley knew that the body of old Oliver Baxter had been found and that he had been foully murdered. With darkness came the inevitable gathering of excited, bewildered people in the downtown streets. Groups of men, conversing in lowered, guttural voices, discussed the astounding and unexpected discovery. Women and children hung about the edges of these groups, or hurried from one to the other, drinking in the varied comments and opinions. They listened to men putting two and two together; they heard them connect seemingly unimportant details and weld them into convincing facts—for on all sides men were recalling once vague impressions and giving them now the value of convictions.