“What did he say?” demanded Jamieson.

“I couldn’t hear, but his voice was strange; it sounded startled.  I waited for him to call out again, but he did not, so I went down-stairs.  He was sitting on the porch step, looking straight ahead, as if he saw something among the trees across the road.  And he kept mumbling about having seen a ghost.  He looked queer, and I tried to get him inside, but he wouldn’t move.  Then I thought I’d better go up to the house.”

“Didn’t he say anything else you could understand?” I asked.

“He said something about the grave giving up its dead.”

Mr. Jamieson was going through the old man’s pockets, and Gertrude was composing his arms, folding them across his white shirt-bosom, always so spotless.

Mr. Jamieson looked up at me.

“What was that you said to me, Miss Innes, about the murder at the house being a beginning and not an end?  By jove, I believe you were right!”

In the course of his investigations the detective had come to the inner pocket of the dead butler’s black coat.  Here he found some things that interested him.  One was a small flat key, with a red cord tied to it, and the other was a bit of white paper, on which was written something in Thomas’ cramped hand.  Mr. Jamieson read it:  then he gave it to me.  It was an address in fresh ink—­

Lucien Wallace, 14 Elm Street, Richfield.

As the card went around, I think both the detective and I watched for any possible effect it might have, but, beyond perplexity, there seemed to be none.

“Richfield!” Gertrude exclaimed.  “Why, Elm Street is the main street; don’t you remember, Halsey?”

“Lucien Wallace!” Halsey said.  “That is the child Stewart spoke of at the inquest.”

Warner, with his mechanic’s instinct, had reached for the key.  What he said was not a surprise.

“Yale lock,” he said.  “Probably a key to the east entry.”

There was no reason why Thomas, an old and trusted servant, should not have had a key to that particular door, although the servants’ entry was in the west wing.  But I had not known of this key, and it opened up a new field of conjecture.  Just now, however, there were many things to be attended to, and, leaving Warner with the body, we all went back to the house.  Mr. Jamieson walked with me, while Halsey and Gertrude followed.

“I suppose I shall have to notify the Armstrongs,” I said.  “They will know if Thomas had any people and how to reach them.  Of course, I expect to defray the expenses of the funeral, but his relatives must be found.  What do you think frightened him, Mr. Jamieson?”

“It is hard to say,” he replied slowly, “but I think we may be certain it was fright, and that he was hiding from something.  I am sorry in more than one way:  I have always believed that Thomas knew something, or suspected something, that he would not tell.  Do you know hour much money there was in that worn-out wallet of his?  Nearly a hundred dollars!  Almost two months’ wages—­and yet those darkies seldom have a penny.  Well—­what Thomas knew will be buried with him.”