“And you?  Surely when you see it you will be able to satisfy any misgivings you may have?”

“I shall never see it, Mr. Cleek.  It was claimed when identified and buried within twelve hours,” said the Major, glancing up sharply as Cleek, receiving this piece of information, blew out a soft, low whistle.  “I was not told anything about it until this evening, and what I have done—­in coming to you, I mean—­I have done with nobody’s knowledge.  I—­I am so horribly in the dark—­I have such fearful thoughts and—­and I want to be sure.  I must be sure or I shall go out of my mind.  That’s the ‘case,’ Mr. Cleek—­tell me what you think of it.”

“I can do that in a very few words, Major,” he replied.  “It is either a gigantic swindle or it is a clear case of murder.  If a swindle, then Ulchester himself is at the bottom of it and it will end in murder just the same.  Frankly, the swindle theory strikes me as being the more probable; in other words, that the whole thing is a put-up game between Ulchester and the woman Anita; that they played upon Zuilika’s fear of the supernatural for a purpose; that a body was procured and sunk in that particular spot for the furtherance of that purpose; and if the widow attempts to put into execution this plan—­no doubt instilled into her mind by Anita—­of returning with her wealth to her native land, she will simply be led into some safe place and then effectually put out of the way for ever.  That is what I think of the case if it is to be regarded in the light of a swindle; but if Ulchester is really dead, murder, not suicide, is at the back of his taking off, and—­Oh, well, we won’t say anything more about it just yet awhile.  I shall want to look over the ground before I jump to any conclusions.  You are still stopping in the house, you and your son, I think you remarked?  If you could contrive to put up an old army friend’s son there for a night, Major, give me the address.  I’ll drop in on you to-morrow and have a little look round.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

When, next morning, Major Burnham-Seaforth announced the dilemma in which, through his own house being temporarily closed, he found himself owing to the proposed visit of Lieutenant Rupert St. Aubyn, son of an old army friend, Zuilika was the first to suggest the very thing he was fishing for.

“Ah, let him come here, dear friend,” she said in that sad, sweetly modulated voice which so often wrung this susceptible old heart.  “There is plenty of room!—­plenty, alas now—­and any friend of yours can only be a friend of mine.  He will not annoy.  Let him come here.”