“Yes,” pursued Kennedy.  “They seem to me to be subcutaneous incisions of the neck with a very fine scalpel dividing the two great pneumogastric nerves.  Of course you know what that would mean—­the victim would pass away naturally by slow and easy stages in three or four days, and all that would appear might be congestion of the lungs.  They are delicate little punctures and elusive nerves to locate, but after all it might be done as painlessly, as simply and as safely as a barber might remove some dead hairs.  A country coroner might easily pass over such evidence at an autopsy—­especially if it was concealed by skin varnish.”

I was surprised at the frankness with which Kennedy spoke, but absolutely amazed at the coolness of Jermyn.  At first he said absolutely nothing.  He seemed to be as set in his reticence as he had been when we first met.

I watched him narrowly.  Waldon, who was driving the boat, had not heard what was said, but I had, and I could not conceive how anyone could take it so calmly.

Finally Jermyn turned to Kennedy and looked him squarely in the eye.  “Kennedy,” he said slowly, “this is extraordinary—­most extraordinary,” then, pausing, added, “if true.”

“There can be no doubt of the truth,” replied Kennedy, eyeing Dr. Jermyn just as squarely.

“What do you propose to do about it?” asked the doctor.

“Investigate,” replied Kennedy simply.  “While Waldon takes these things up to the undertaker’s, we may as well wait here in the boat.  I want him to stop on the way back for Mr. Edwards.  Then we shall go out to the Lucie.  He must go, whether he likes it or not.”

It was indeed a most peculiar situation as Kennedy and I sat in the tender with Dr. Jermyn waiting for Waldon to return with Edwards.  Not a word was spoken.

The tenseness of the situation was not relieved by the return of Waldon with Edwards.  Waldon seemed to realize without knowing just what it was, that something was about to happen.  He drove his boat back to the Lucie again in record time.  This was Kennedy’s turn to be reticent.  Whatever it was he was revolving in his mind, he answered in scarcely more than monosyllables whatever questions were put to him.

“You are not coming aboard?” inquired Edwards in surprise as he and Jermyn mounted the steps of the houseboat ladder, and Kennedy remained seated in the tender.

“Not yet,” replied Craig coolly.

“But I thought you had something to show me.  Waldon told me you had.”

“I think I shall have in a short time,” returned Kennedy.  “We shall be back immediately.  I’m just going to ask Waldon to run over to the Nautilus for a few minutes.  We’ll tow back your launch, too, in case you need it.”

Waldon had cast off obediently.

“There’s one thing sure,” I remarked.  “Jermyn can’t get away from the Lucie until we return—­unless he swims.”

Kennedy did not seem to pay much attention to the remark, for his only reply was:  “I’m taking a chance by this maneuvering, but I think it will work out that I am correct.  By the way, Waldon, you needn’t put on so much speed.  I’m in no great hurry to get back.  Half an hour will be time enough.”