“Straight enough story,” commented Haynes, “particularly as Hawkins, the coloured man, gives the same version. We’ll try the foreigner later. I want to get to the bottom of this. If murder has been done in mid-air, between the reef where the schooner lay and this cliff, it’s about the strangest case in my experience.” “How are you so sure it’s murder?” demanded Serdholm the life-guard. “Anyone can make out murder if they’re looking for sensation hard enough.” There was an undisguised hostility in his tone as he addressed Haynes which surprised Colton. “Why do you think it wasn’t?” asked Colton quickly. “Did I say I thought it wasn’t?” retorted the guard. “Maybe it was; but I’ve seen a sharpened stake shoved clean through a man in a surf.” “You needn’t be so fresh about it, Serdholm,” put in the other guard. “It’s true, though, what he says, Mr. Haynes,” he added. “And there was plenty of driftwood afloat.” Colton bent over the dead man again. “It’s almost too clean an incision for anything except steel,” he said. “Besides, wood leaves splinters.” “You saw the man come in?” Haynes asked Bruce. “Helped to lift him out. Look!” He held out his hands, showing great stains of blood. “You didn’t see anything that would give a clue?” “No, I didn’t see anything,” returned Bruce after a moment’s consideration; “but some of the men thought they heard a scream, when he was about halfway in. It was just after a lightning flash. They thought a bolt might have gone through him.” “Lightning doesn’t wound that way,” said Colton. “No, I didn’t think so. But I thought I’d better tell you. Only in the noises of a gale you can hear all sorts of voices.” “They didn’t say anything about a kind of rasping, creaking sound?” asked Haynes after a moment’s hesitation. “No, sir,” said the man, surprised. “Nothing like that.” Haynes turned away impatiently. “Come down to the Blue Hill station,” he said to Colton. “We’ll see if Miss Johnston’s patient can throw any light on this.” During the walk Haynes was so deeply in thought and replied to Colton’s questions so curtly that the latter fell into silence. At the door of the station they were met by Helga. “How’s your salvage, Princess?” queried Haynes. “Able to stand a cross-examination?” “More than able—willing,” replied the girl with a smile. “He’s been telling us all about himself. Nothing queerer than he ever came ashore on Montauk. I’m afraid the sea-water has got into his brain a little.” “Tell us what he said.” “In the first place, he is some sort of a travelling juggler and magician. As soon as he is recovered he will give us a private exhibition in honour of his rescue. He calls himself ‘The Wonderful Whalley,’ though his real name is something like Cardonaro. An injury to his hand stranded him in Maine, and he took passage on the _Milly Esham_ because it was a cheap way to New York. Age, forty-two; nationality, Portuguese; occupation, the theatrical profession. Anything else, Petit Père?”