“Exactly. Why should he? Is the water always turbid?”
“Generally about this color. The stream brings down the clay.”
“How deep is it?”
“About two feet at each side and three in the middle.”
“So we can put aside all idea of the man having been drowned in crossing.”
“No, a child could not be drowned in it.”
We walked across the drawbridge, and were admitted by a quaint, gnarled, dried-up person, who was the butler, Ames. The poor old fellow was white and quivering from the shock. The village Sergeant, a tall, formal, melancholy man, still held his vigil in the room of Fate. The doctor had departed.
“Anything fresh, Sergeant Wilson?” asked White Mason.
“No, Sir.”
“Then you can go home. You’ve had enough. We can send for you if we want you. The butler had better wait outside. Tell him to warn Mr. Cecil Barker, Mrs. Douglas, and the housekeeper that we may want a word with them pres-
