T’e guilty man will not escape, I’ll promise you t’at, Mr. Delroy,” and he opened the door and stepped out upon the pier.
Dawn was in the sky, a clear, warm, joyous dawn. In tree and bush and hedge the birds were welcoming it. All nature was rejoicing, quite indifferent to the human tragedy which had marked the night.
They went together down the pier to the spot where Graham had fallen. The rain had washed away nearly all the bloodstains. His rifle lay on the pier beside the chair in which he had been sitting. The chair was overturned.
“But t’e wind may have done t’at,” said the coroner, when Delroy pointed out that the overturned chair suggested a struggle. “Or maybe he knocked it over when he fell. Let’s have a look at t’at little cage.”
He pulled up the rope. The lid of the cage was open, but it did not seem to be injured.
“Maybe t’e waves proke it open,” suggested Heffelbower.
“They couldn’t have done that,” objected Delroy. “See—here’s how it fastened.”
He closed the lid and snapped into place three small but very strong hooks, which locked automatically.
“The only thing that could open it,” he added, “was a human hand.”
“And an intelligent one, at t’at,” concluded the coroner. “It would be very hard to find t’ose little hooks in t’e dark, unless one knowed just where t’ey were.”
