the motive seemed to be lacking; it still seems to be lacking. Have
either of you two imagination enough to help me out?"

"The motive?" queried Bromley. "Why, that remains the same, doesn't
it?--more's the pity."

The playwright had lighted the long-stemmed pipe, and was thoughtfully
blowing smoke rings toward the new patch in the bungalow ceiling.

"Not if my theory is to stand, Mr. Bromley. You see, I am proceeding
confidently upon the supposition that Sanderson wasn't messing in
Manuel's domestic affairs. I can't believe for a moment that it was a
quarrel over the woman, with Manuel's jealousy to account for the
killing. It's too absurdly preposterous. Settling that fact to my own
complete satisfaction, I began to search for the real motive, and it is
for you to say whether I am right or wrong. Tell me: was Sanderson more
than casually interested in the details of Braithwaite's drowning? That
story must have been pretty fresh and raw in everybody's recollection at
that time."

Bromley's rejoinder was promptly affirmative. "It was; and Sanderson
_was_ interested. As Braithwaite's successor, and with the fight between
the company and the colonel transferred to him, he couldn't shirk his
responsibility. Now that you recall it, I remember very well that he had
notions of his own about Braithwaite's taking off. He was a quiet sort;
didn't talk much; but what little he did say gave me to understand that
he suspected foul play of some kind. And here's your theory again, Mr.
Wingfield: if a hint of what he suspected ever got wind in the camp, it
would account for the superstitious twist given to the drowning by
Hoskins and the others, wouldn't it?"

Wingfield smote the table with his fist.

"There is your connecting link!" he exclaimed. "We have just proved
beyond doubt that Sanderson wasn't killed in a fair fight: he was
murdered, and the murder was carefully planned beforehand. By the same
token, Braithwaite was murdered, too! Recall the circumstances as they
have been related by the eye-witnesses: when they found the Government
man and took him out of the river, his skull was crushed and both arms
were broken ... see here!" he threw himself quickly into the attitude of
one fishing from a riverbank. "Suppose somebody creeps up behind me with
a club raised to brain me: I get a glimpse of him or his shadow, dodge,
fling up my arms, so--and one good, smashing blow does the business.
That's all; or all but one little it