And then came the startling rumor that old man Baxter had gone to his safety deposit box in the vaults of the bank three days before his disappearance and had removed five one thousand dollar Liberty bonds! Rumor, pure and simple, yet accepted as fact by those who roamed the streets. The old man’s life insurance policy was discussed; and there was a story that he had openly threatened to make a new will, disinheriting his son. A grave, unanswered question, too, had to do with the money so lavishly spent by young Oliver—several thousand dollars in cash. Where had it come from? His father had called him a loafer, had charged him with coming back to Rumley to be supported in idleness. If Oliver had come home from the war “dead broke,” how was it that he had acquired several thousand dollars in cash? Thirty-five hundred dollars in banknotes—the whole town knew that the hardware merchant had drawn that amount from the bank—and five Liberty bonds that could be readily turned into money. Eighty-five hundred dollars! Simple as rolling off a log! Ha! There wasn’t much doubt as to where and how Oliver got his ready cash! But to split his own father’s head open with a spade, and throw him into a supposedly bottomless pit, and burn his clothes! For now all those who thronged the streets were saying that Oliver October had murdered his father. Across the street from the Baxter Block, where Link’s Undertaking Establishment was located, a morbid, motionless crowd eyed the doors guarded by two policemen. A single electric bulb at the rear of the main reception room shed a feeble and rather ghastly light over the dim interior. Every one knew that back of the reception room was the stock-room, lined with caskets standing on end behind glass doors, and beyond that was the workroom where a grim and awful thing was lying—alone! The street leading to the Baxter residence was alive with people—curious, silent, awe-struck men and women who stared intently at the windows of the house and wondered what was going on behind the yellow shades. The slow, solemn shuffle of aimless feet, passing, pausing and repassing the house on the knoll, began early in the evening and seemed endless. Automobiles filled with people moved slowly along the highway skirting the dark, terrifying swamp—all eyes turned toward the loathesome tract as if expecting to glimpse some ghostly reënactment of the afternoon’s scene.