Bassett left her and went to the library to call up Forestville, the county seat. He knew the place well--a small town on the edge of northern solitudes. It was the starting point for hunting parties to New Brunswick, and Bassett, a sportsman in his leisure hours, had stayed there several times assembling his guides and gear. On his last trip, two years ago, trouble with a guide had brought him in contact with the sheriff, Abel Williams. Over legal wrangling they had struck up a friendship and he remembered Williams as a man of some capacity, straight and fair-minded. If he was still in office it would simplify matters; to start out with confidence in the director would be a vital gain. He waited, the receiver against his ear, a foot drumming on the carpet, then a deep and growling voice hummed along the wire. It was Abel Williams. Williams would be down as soon as he could, with Mr. Rawson, the district-attorney--an hour and a half to two hours, the roads being bad. The shore people had been told it was an accident--that’s all right, couldn’t hold an inquest anyway without a body and it was a good thing to keep ’em off. Better not let anything come out till they’d got the situation in hand, easy to fix at that end as the United American Press man was off fishing. They’d do a good deal better if the press was held off for a spell. The place was small, they’d clutter it up, tramp out foot-prints, get in the way searching for clues. Seeing where the island was and that there was no one on it but their own crowd, it would be possible to keep things out of the public eye till they had the work well started. Bassett looked at his watch--nearly eight--probably two hours to wait. The best thing he could do was to get them together and keep them as quiet as he could. As he went down the path his mind collected and marshalled in order the facts he would have to present. They had all been in the house except Stokes on the balcony and Flora walking round the island. Stokes eaten into by a hopeless love, Flora on fire with jealousy and hate--passions that make for murder. “God, what’s going to be the end of this?” he groaned to himself. He found them in a group near the pine grove, excitedly conferring together. They had been back and forth to the house and the wharf, some aimlessly running about, others trying to do something intelligent and helpful. Stokes had just returned with the electric torch and they were preparing to search the ground for foot-prints. Bassett brought their activities to an end and shepherded them to the house. With dragging feet and lowered heads they trailed up the path and filed into the living-room.