“If he was the one to use the dagger against her, where is the dagger?  Should we not be able to find it somewhere about the premises?”

“He may have buried it outside.  Crazy men are super naturally cunning.”

“When you can produce it from any place inside that board fence, I will consider your theory.  At present I limit my suspicions of Philemon to the half-unconscious attentions which a man of disordered intellect might give a wife bleeding and dying under his eyes.  My idea on the subject is—–­”

“Would you be so kind as not to give utterance to your ideas until I have been able to form some for myself?” interrupted a voice from the doorway.

As this voice was unexpected, they all turned.  A small man with sleek dark hair and expressionless features stood before them.  Behind him was Abel, carrying a hand-bag and umbrella.

“The detective from Boston,” announced the latter.  Coroner Talbot rose.

“You are in good time,” he remarked.  “We have work of no ordinary nature for you.”

The man failed to look interested.  But then his countenance was not one to show emotion.

“My name is Knapp,” said he.  “I have had my supper, and am ready to go to work.  I have read the newspapers; all I want now is any additional facts that have come to light since the telegraphic dispatches were sent to Boston.  Facts, mind you; not theories.  I never allow myself to be hampered by other persons’ theories.”

Not liking his manner, which was brusque and too self-important for a man of such insignificant appearance, Coroner Talbot referred him to Mr. Fenton, who immediately proceeded to give him the result of such investigations as he and his men had been able to make; which done, Mr. Knapp put on his hat and turned toward the door.

“I will go to the house and see for myself what is to be learned there,” said he.  “May I ask the privilege of going alone?” he added, as Mr. Fenton moved.  “Abel will see that I am given admittance.”

“Show me your credentials,” said the coroner.  He did so.  “They seem all right, and you should be a man who understands his business.  Go alone, if you prefer, but bring your conclusions here.  They may need some correcting.”

“Oh, I will return,” Knapp nonchalantly remarked, and went out, having made anything but a favourable impression upon the assembled gentlemen.

“I wish we had shown more grit and tried to handle this thing ourselves,” observed Mr. Fenton.  “I cannot bear to think of that cold, bloodless creature hovering over our beloved Agatha.”

“I wonder at Carson.  Why should he send us such a man?  Could he not see the matter demanded extraordinary skill and judgment?”

“Oh, this fellow may have skill.  But he is so unpleasant.  I hate to deal with folks of such fish-like characteristics.  But who is this?” he asked as a gentle tap was heard at the door.  “Why, it’s Loton.  What can he want here?”