“Well, it’s really a pond,” he said, “but it was called ‘the lake.’” “By Mark,” thought Antony. Aloud he said, “What do they expect to find?” “They think that Mark—” He broke off and shrugged his shoulders. “May have drowned himself, knowing that he couldn’t get away? And knowing that he had compromised himself by trying to get away at all?” “Yes; I suppose so,” said Cayley slowly. “I should have thought he would have given himself more of a run for his money. After all, he had a revolver. If he was determined not to be taken alive, he could always have prevented that. Couldn’t he have caught a train to London before the police knew anything about it?” “He might just have managed it. There _was_ a train. They would have noticed him at Woodham, of course, but he might have managed it at Stanton. He’s not so well-known there, naturally. The inspector has been inquiring. Nobody seems to have seen him.” “There are sure to be people who will say they did, later on. There was never a missing man yet but a dozen people come forward who swear to have seen him at a dozen different places at the same time.” Cayley smiled. “Yes. That’s true. Anyhow, he wants to drag the pond first.” He added dryly, “From what I’ve read of detective stories, inspectors always do want to drag the pond first.” “Is it deep?” “Quite deep enough,” said Cayley as he got up. On his way to the door he stopped, and looked at Antony. “I’m so sorry that we’re keeping you here like this, but it will only be until to-morrow. The inquest is to-morrow afternoon. Do amuse yourself how you like till then. Beverley will look after you.” “Thanks very much. I shall really be quite all right.” Antony went on with his breakfast. Perhaps it was true that inspectors liked dragging ponds, but the question was, did Cayleys like having them dragged? Was Cayley anxious about it, or quite indifferent? He certainly did not seem to be anxious, but he could hide his feelings very easily beneath that heavy, solid face, and it was not often that the real Cayley peeped out. Just a little too eager once or twice, perhaps, but there was nothing to be learnt from it this morning. Perhaps he knew that the pond had no secrets to give up. After all, inspectors were always dragging ponds. Bill came in noisily. Bill’s face was an open book. Excitement was written all over it. “Well,” he said eagerly, as he sat down to the business of the meal, “what are we going to do this morning?” “Not talk so loudly, for one thing,” said Antony. Bill looked about him apprehensively. Was Cayley under the table, for example? After last night one never knew. “Is—er——” He raised his eyebrows. “No. But one doesn’t want to shout. One should modulate the voice, my dear William, while breathing gently from the hips. Thus one avoids those chest-notes which have betrayed many a secret. In other words, pass the toast.” “You seem bright this morning.”