"Haven't shipped my dogs down here yet, but coons and such things come out of the woods every once in a while. Where are your men----"
"They'll round up here in a minute. We've been beating through the grounds."
In a moment Major Dell and Fargo approached us from opposite sides of the garden, and once more we headed down toward the lagoon. A voice called after us, and Pescini caught up.
We walked with ever-decreasing pace, a rather uncertain group, down toward the crags of the shore. All of us, I think, were busy with our own thoughts. All of us paused, at last, forty yards from the scene of the tragedy.
"There's really nothing further we can do," Nopp said. "If the murderer is among the servants we've got him--you found 'em all, didn't you, Nealman?"
"All of 'em. No suspicious circumstances."
"Good. If he is some outsider, we'll round him up. I rather think the former--it's too early to make a guess. But I think we'd better appoint a guard over the body--to keep any curious persons from coming near and tramping out footprints, and so on. There's apt to be a crowd of the curious here to-morrow."
All of us nodded. Lemuel Marten whispered an oath.
Nopp turned to him. "Would you mind taking that post to-night, Marten?" he asked. Because he already knew the man's answer, he turned to us. "Lem's the best man for the post," he explained. "You chaps know we'll all have to give an account of our actions to-night. It's customary at such times. And you know that Lem was busy singing his pirate song when the thing occurred."
"That's an unnecessary point, Joe," Marten answered. "None of us will be in the least suspected. This poor chap--that none of us knew. However, I'll gladly enough act as guard."
Pescini handed him back the weapon, and Marten walked on across the lawn to his post. The rest of us waited an instant in the road, talking quietly to one another, and two or three of the men were getting out their cigarettes. It was our first breathing-spell. Then we started slowly back toward the house.
But we halted at the sound of Marten's voice. "Wait a minute, will you?" he called.
It is hard to explain why we all stopped in our tracks. Van Hope, whom I had never suspected of nerves, let his cigarette fall to the ground, a red streak. The voice out of the gloom was wholly quiet, subdued, perfectly calm, seemingly nothing to waken alarm or even especial interest. Perhaps what held us and startled us was the realization of an effort of will behind those commonplace, unruffled tones.