It was impossible to tell. Certainly it was a hole which roughly resembled a grave, though its outlines were jagged and irregular. It was filled with loose earth to within about a foot of the level of the cellar floor. A pile of dirt was banked in one corner, and upon it lay a pick and shovel. "Here," whispered Godfrey, and thrust the torch into my hands. "Keep your finger on this button. I'm going to find out what's buried here." My hand was shaking so that I could scarcely hold the torch. I saw him seize the shovel and step down into the hole. Then with a little shake of his head, he laid it carefully down again, and, stooping, began scooping the loose dirt from one end of the hole with his hands. I scarcely breathed as I watched him. What _was_ buried here? What dreadful thing was about to be revealed? "Steady, Lester!" whispered Godfrey, and bent again to his task. But it was foolish to suppose this a grave! It might have been dug for any of a dozen purposes--perhaps the cellar needed draining--perhaps the pipes were out of order--perhaps--but if it had been dug for an innocent purpose why had Miss Kingdon chosen the middle of the night for the work? Godfrey stopped with a sudden exclamation, and dropped upon his knees. He laboured for a moment with feverish energy. "Now, Lester, here!" he said. I bent down and shot a ray of light into the little hole which he had made. Then, in sheer terror, I nearly dropped the torch, for, half hidden by the clinging earth, lay a shoe--a shoe that was not empty! CHAPTER XVII A Tragedy Unforeseen For an instant I stood so, rigid with horror, scarcely breathing, scarcely daring to believe my eyes. Then Godfrey snatched the torch from my nerveless fingers, and bent down into the grave. "Good God!" he murmured, after a moment's inspection of what lay there. "I would never have guessed this! This is a thousand times worse than I imagined! Here, Lester, hold the light. I'll uncover the face," and thrusting the torch into my hands, he attacked the loose earth at the other end of the grave. I, too, moved somehow to the other end, and threw the light down into the shallow hole. Godfrey worked with desperate energy, hurling the dirt right and left. I watched the flying hands in such an agony of horror as I hope never again to experience; stared down into the deepening hole, with the cold sweat starting out across my forehead at the thought of what any instant might reveal. Again Godfrey dropped to his knees, and I was conscious of a face growing beneath his hands, almost as if he were calling it out of the darkness. Clearer and clearer it grew, as he brushed away the clinging clay; then he stood erect with a little sigh of mingled horror and satisfaction. Staring up at us was a face--not a woman's face--not Marcia Lawrence's face--but a man's face, florid, heavy-jowled, with a black moustache; dead, yet not calm in death, but contorted by a hideous grimace, as though chuckling with satisfaction.