"You mean," demanded the coroner, a trifle uneasily, "that we've got another murder on our hands before the first one is cleared up?"
"I mean," said Trafford; "that if we have, it may prove easier to unravel two murders than one."
They walked slowly back and looked at the face that was gashed beyond human recognition. Was this he who had cried so piteously on Millbank Bridge, "Sacré; c'est moi, Pierre!"? If so, what had been the history of the few hours that elapsed before he plunged into the river to the death meant for Trafford? How was that plunge made? Where was the Pierre who had struck the blow on the bridge, and who must be able to tell the story of the man's drowning? These were the questions which were dinning themselves in Trafford's brain and imperiously demanding an answer.
The news of the finding of the body spread rapidly through Millbank, but with comparatively trifling sensation. Men were drowned each year in the river. The driving business was full of risks and men fell victims to it each spring. It was not like a murder—a blow from no one knew where, falling
