house for breakfast, having first arranged that the base of the cliffs should be thoroughly searched.
Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body had been removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be held. He brought with him some serious and definite news. As I expected, nothing had been found in the small caves below the cliff, but he had examined the papers in McPherson’s desk, and there were several which showed an intimate correspondence with a certain Miss Maud Bellamy, of Fulworth. We had then established the identity of the writer of the note.
“The police have the letters,” he explained. “I could not bring them. But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I see no reason, however, to connect it with that horrible happening save, indeed, that the lady had made an appointment with him.”
“But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit of using,” I remarked.
“It is mere chance,” said he, “that several of the students were not with McPherson.”
“Was it mere chance?”
Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.
“Ian Murdoch held them back,” said he; “he would insist upon some algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he is dreadfully cut up about it all.”
“And yet I gather that they were not friends.”
“At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch has been as near to McPherson as he ever could be to any one. He is not of a very sympathetic disposition by nature.”
