“Sexton,” he began finally, “this is a pretty serious charge you make, my man, but since I have been thinking things over, I confess some suspicious circumstances have arisen in my own mind.  Of course I was not aware of these facts you have just related, but they fit in nicely with some observations of my own.  The truth is,” he confessed frankly, “I did not tell all I knew to the coroner’s jury.  I meant to do so, but the right questions were not asked me, and certain details slipped my memory until too late.  Do you recall a boulder of rock out in that clover field?”

“Yes, sir, to the right of the path; it is mostly hidden now by the growth.”

“Entirely concealed a few yards away.  Well, when I crawled through the fence after hearing that shot fired, I saw nothing, and heard nothing.  I had advanced into the field several rods when I came upon the trail of some one leading directly north.  It was not a path; merely evidence that a single person had passed that way.  I followed, and came to this boulder.  Here there was every proof visible that the previous party had remained for some time, seated and lying on the ground under protection of the stone.  The occupancy was a recent one.  Then evidently, whoever it was, had advanced to the right in the general direction of the gate through the fence, near where Coolidge’s body was found.  The marks of advance did not lead that far, or even to the marked path through the field.  They ended on a little rise, some ten yards from the boulder, where the fellow apparently turned about, and retraced his steps.”

“How far was that from the gate into the road, sir?” he asked breathlessly.

“Within easy shooting distance for a revolver of that calibre, I should say.  Any good marksman could have rung the bell.”

“And you saw no one?”

“No; not a sign; the fact is I failed at the time to put two and two together.  The thought of a possible murder never occurred to me.  It was only afterwards that I began to appreciate what all this might mean, and now what you have said has driven it home.”

“You think it was murder then, sir?”

“Yes, I do,” replied West gravely.  “It has all the marks, but who committed the crime?  What was the motive?  It will never do for us to make such a charge, after the coroner’s verdict, without positive proof.”

“No, sir.”

“And you know of nothing which might clear this up?”

“No, sir; I’ve been with the Coolidges, sir, ever since Miss Natalie was a little girl, and I ain’t heard of any trouble that ought to end in murder, sir.”

“How old was Miss Coolidge when her father died?”

“She must have been seventeen, sir.”

“And since then Percival Coolidge had full charge of the estate?”

“Practically, yes, sir; there was another trustee, but he died; and then, as I understand, Miss Natalie had some funds of her own.”