“That's not all, Ranville. The man in the boat got one foot in the water when he got out. You can see the dirt where it fell from the edge of the bank. But when he came back, he had something with him—something heavy. Maybe he carried it, but he had to half drag it into the boat. Look,” and he pointed to the bank. There, a little away from the spot where the impression was in the mud, were two places a foot apart—places where the grass was tangled and matted, and where the bank itself was broken down. It did look as though something had been dragged over the bank to the boat. As Bartley looked, his face grew very white, and I saw his hands open and close. He turned to Patton, and his voice was crisp as he shot out: “Patton, that was not your magazine we found in the library.” Patton shook his head. He might have replied, but Bartley gave him no time. The voice was insistent as he asked: “You said the girl—the secretary—was to return to the library and work an hour?” “Why, yes; she went to supper and was to come about six and work until seven. Carter told me we were to eat at seven.” “And you never saw her again after she left?” “Oh, yes, I did,” was Patton's unemotional answer. “Yes, I did. I saw her going up the street toward Warren's when I was in the tobacco store. If I had not stopped to talk for a few moments, I would have been able to catch up with her. Why, what's the matter?” Bartley's grave glance went to Ranville's face. As the Englishman looked at him, to my surprise I saw the red fade slowly from his face. Very gravely he started to nod his head when there came Bartley's quick voice: “What's the matter? Good Lord! Don't you see that the girl must have come up the path just about the moment the gardener was shot? Don't you see she must have walked right into the library, perhaps while the murderer held the gun in his hand—perhaps even at the very moment of shooting? She was there; the magazine on the floor was hers.” Carter gave a sudden start, and Patton's face grew white. He was the first to stammer out: “But where is she now?” Bartley's eyes swept over the water of the lake and rested on the faint impression in the silt—an impression now almost smoothed out. Then, pointing to the bedraggled grass and the place where the bank was broken, he said slowly: “She must have been at the front door just as the murder took place. Whoever did the killing dragged the girl down across the lawn and to the boat. Her feet, as they dragged along the grass, broke down the edge of the bank.” He paused and there came a moment of horrified silence. It needed but one glance at Ranville to see that he agreed with Bartley. From Carter's expression as he gazed at the broken place in the bank, I could tell he believed the same. Only Patton seemed too dazed to comprehend what it might mean.