“Yes, into the lake. It implies an expert diver, and it is a most dangerous proceeding, even then. But you asked for the possibilities.” “Is Everett or Dean an expert diver?” I asked. “Everett is. Dean not.” “And Everett is in love with the Dallas, too. Well, we can hardly eliminate him, then.” “But I refuse to suspect a lover of murder,” Kee insisted. “He must realize he will be suspected, if not convicted, and where would he stand with the fair one then?” “Murderers don’t always think ahead,” I said, sagely. “This one did. He thought far enough ahead to bring that horrible nail. We’ve no reason to think there was a nail lying about among the flowers and crackers.” “Isn’t there a story about somebody being killed with a nail?” I asked. “There is,” Kee replied, “it’s in Holy Writ. Jael killed Sisera, or Sisera killed Jael, I forget which, but the weapon was a nail driven in the victim’s head.” “Yes,” I returned, “I know, but I don’t mean that story. There’s another—by a Frenchman——” “No,” said Maud, in her quiet, confident way, “it’s a Spanish story, by Pedro de Alarcón. The name of it is _The Nail_. It’s a horrible tale, but the theme is a murder by a nail driven in a man’s head.” “Then,” and Kee shook himself, as if roused to action, “then we must look for a man who has read that story. Nobody would think of a nail, unless something had suggested it to him. I say that eliminates all the servants, unless, maybe, that chauffeur chap, Louis. I can’t see any of the others reading Spanish stories, even in translation. Item one. Search the Tracy library for a copy of that story. Is it a whole book, Maud?” “No. A short story. I read it in a collection of Spanish and Italian mystery tales. I have it at home, but there’s no point to it in connection with this matter, except the nail.” “That association means something,” Kee persisted. “When we do find the murderer, we’ll find he got his notion from that story.” “Or from the Bible,” I said. “Maybe. But I think more likely Maud’s story. As I remember it, the Scripture narrative is not very dramatic, and so, less likely to imbue our murderer’s mind with the plan than the Spanish yarn is.” “Granting the Spanish story, then,” I said, “can’t we eliminate the servants? They’d surely not read such literature.” “All right, eliminate them for the moment,” Kee agreed. “We can always go back to them if need be. That leaves us, in the house, Everett, Billy Dean and Ames. Help yourself.” “Ames,” I said decidedly. “He’s the very one to read morbid, sensational literature.” “But everybody reads detective stories nowadays,” Lora said. “Especially the grave and reverend seigneurs who wouldn’t be suspected of such tastes.” “This wasn’t a detective story,” Maud informed us. “It was a thriller, a scare story.”