The open country lay just beyond the Simpson house, and the girl’s first thought was that some small-game animal had taken refuge in some cranny of the lumber. Urged on by her curiosity, she stepped out of the house and started toward the rear of the yard. “It’s a rabbit, mebbe, or a squirrel,” she told herself. “Why don’t the fool dig at it, though, instead of yelping its head off?” But by that time she had reached a point from which she could get a view of the rear end of the lumber pile. Suddenly she halted in her tracks. “For the love of Heaven!” she muttered. “That’s funny! Who’s been monkeying with that lumber? It’s been piled over in the night, or some of it has been swiped, and they’ve left a hole underneath. That’s where the mutt’s rabbit, or whatever it is, is making itself scarce.” Vaguely disturbed by her surprising discovery, she approached the spot more slowly. “There seems to be as much lumber as ever,” she decided, “but what does it mean? Who would have taken the trouble to do that—in the dead of night, too—if he wasn’t up to some mischief?” Now the dog caught sight of her and came running forward. She shooed him away, and he began barking at her, but the barks now had a pleading note in them, and again and again he ran back to the pile of lumber. “He wants me to help him, the poor boob!” the girl thought, with a pitying smile. “Ain’t that just like a fool dog?” But she advanced a little farther, somewhat warily, and sniffing the air as she did so. Certainly it was not a skunk that had been cornered, and it was not likely that the creature was ferocious. Having finally arrived within six or eight feet of the end of the pile, the maid stooped cautiously and peered into the little tunnel. A moment later, she gave a piercing scream, picked up her skirts, and fled to the house. Again and again she raised her voice as she ran, but fortunately her vocal efforts did not again touch the high-water mark of that first cry, which, as it proved, had awakened Mrs. Simpson. The girl scuttled through the lower part of the house, and was flying up the stairs, when her mistress appeared at the top of the first flight. “What in the world is the matter, Mary?” Mrs. Simpson demanded. As she put the question, she clutched at her heart, for her thoughts had instinctively gone to her missing husband, and she imagined that the maid must have had some news of Simpson, or, perhaps, had even found his body on the front doorstep. Naturally, therefore, the girl’s information was not reassuring. “Oh, Mrs. Simpson!” she cried. “There’s been a murder as sure as you live! There’s a dead man under that pile of lumber in the back yard! I saw his feet!” Mrs. Simpson’s face was as white as her nightdress. “Merciful Heaven!” she breathed, horror in her eyes. “I knew it—it’s Mr. Simpson! Oh, how can I bear it, how can I bear it!” And she clutched the banister for support.