The head was crushed in as by a terrific blow. Near the right shoulder the arm-bone protruded from the flesh. Colton lifted the corpse, and there through the breast was the same kind of gash that had slain Petersen. “It’s that cursed juggler,” said Haynes bitterly. “Why did we let him get away?” “This man has been dead for several hours,” said the young doctor in a low tone. “As long ago as ten o’clock last night?” asked Haynes. “Very probably.” “What killed him; the crashing of the skull or the stab-wound?” “Whichever came first.” “Assuming the correctness of your hypothesis that this unhappy man rushed into the oak patch from the other side, Mr. Haynes, how is the fact that we find his body here, several rods distant from the apparent end of his flight, to be explained?” asked the professor. “On the ground that he rushed out again,” replied the reporter dryly. “Then you discerned returning footprints?” “No; there was none there, so far as I could see.” “And there is none here,” said Colton, who had been examining the grassless soil under the thick canopy. “But see how the thicket is broken, almost as if he had flung himself upon it. Haynes! What’s wrong?” Without any warning the reporter had thrown up his hands and fallen at full length into the oak. They rushed to his aid, but he was up at once. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said, smiling. “I’m all right. Just an experiment. I shall go over with this man to make some inquiries at the fishing colony and arrange for the disposal of the body. It may take me all day. In that case, I’ll see you this evening.” He took the fisherman by the arm. The man seemed dazed with horror, and went along with hanging jaw. Colton and Professor Ravenden returned to Third House, in pondering silence. At the house Dick found himself suffering from a return of his old restlessness. In the afternoon he saw Miss Ravenden, but she evaded even the necessity of speaking to him. With a vague hope of diverting his mind and perhaps of finding some fresh clue, he returned to the lake, and studied the land not only near the spot where the kites had fallen, but between there and the sea-cliff, without finding anything to lighten the mystery. At nine o’clock Haynes came in, pale and tired, and stopped at Dick’s room. “They have arranged to ship Mr. Ely’s body back to Connecticut where he lived,” he said. “The fishermen are in a state of almost superstitious terror.” “Anything new?” “Yes and no. It’s too indefinite to talk about. What little there is only tends to make the whole question more fantastic and less possible.” Colton looked at him. “You need sleep, and you need it badly,” he said. “Any pain?” “Oh, the usual. A little more, perhaps.” “Take this,” said the other, giving him a powder. “That’ll fix you. I wish it would me; I feel tonight as if sleep had become a lost art.”