Warner was puzzled. He came around to the edge of the veranda and stood looking at it as if it ought to know and explain. “He might have stumbled into the house,” he said, “but he could not have climbed the stairs. Anyhow, he’s not inside or outside, that I can see.” The other members of the party had come back now, and no one had found any trace of the old man. His pipe, still warm, rested on the edge of the rail, and inside on the table his old gray hat showed that its owner had not gone far. He was not far, after all. From the table my eyes traveled around the room, and stopped at the door of a closet. I hardly know what impulse moved me, but I went in and turned the knob. It burst open with the impetus of a weight behind it, and something fell partly forward in a heap on the floor. It was Thomas—Thomas without a mark of injury on him, and dead. CHAPTER XX. DOCTOR WALKER’S WARNING Warner was on his knees in a moment, fumbling at the old man’s collar to loosen it, but Halsey caught his hand. “Let him alone,” he said. “You can’t help him; he is dead.” We stood there, each avoiding the other’s eyes; we spoke low and reverently in the presence of death, and we tacitly avoided any mention of the suspicion that was in every mind. When Mr. Jamieson had finished his cursory examination, he got up and dusted the knees of his trousers. “There is no sign of injury,” he said, and I know I, for one, drew a long breath of relief. “From what Warner says and from his hiding in the closet, I should say he was scared to death. Fright and a weak heart, together.” “But what could have done it?” Gertrude asked. “He was all right this evening at dinner. Warner, what did he say when you found him on the porch?” Warner looked shaken: his honest, boyish face was colorless. “Just what I told you, Miss Innes. He’d been reading the paper down-stairs; I had put up the car, and, feeling sleepy, I came down to the lodge to go to bed. As I went up-stairs, Thomas put down the paper and, taking his pipe, went out on the porch. Then I heard an exclamation from him.” “What did he say?” demanded Jamieson. “I couldn’t hear, but his voice was strange; it sounded startled. I waited for him to call out again, but he did not, so I went down-stairs. He was sitting on the porch step, looking straight ahead, as if he saw something among the trees across the road. And he kept mumbling about having seen a ghost. He looked queer, and I tried to get him inside, but he wouldn’t move. Then I thought I’d better go up to the house.” “Didn’t he say anything else you could understand?” I asked. “He said something about the grave giving up its dead.” Mr. Jamieson was going through the old man’s pockets, and Gertrude was composing his arms, folding them across his white shirt-bosom, always so spotless. Mr. Jamieson looked up at me. “What was that you said to me, Miss Innes, about the murder at the house being a beginning and not an end? By jove, I believe you were right!”