rve him out. Nealman, isn't yours
the only road----"

"As far as I know----"

"The marshes are almost impassible to the left, and on the other side is
the river. If we can keep him from getting as far as Nixon's----"

"Who's Nixon----"

"Next planter up the road, five miles up. Get a phone to him right away.
Young Nixon will watch all night and stop any one who tries to pass. The
sheriff can put a man there to-morrow. Let's find a phone."

Hal Fargo, seemingly as cold as a blade, started to bend over the body
for further examination of the wound, but two of the men caught his arm.

"Don't touch him, Hal," Major Dell advised, quietly. "The less we track
up the spot and muss things up the better. The detective'll have a
better chance for thumb prints, and things like that."

"You're right, Dell," the man agreed. "And now let's get to a phone."

"Good." It was Joe Nopp's cool, self-reliant voice again. "In the
meantime, have any of you got a gun?"

Lemuel Marten alone responded--he carried a little automatic pistol in
the pocket of his dinner coat. "Here," he said. He drew the thing out,
and it made blue fire in the moonlight in his hand.

"Then, Marten, you head a hunt through these grounds. The murderer might
still be hiding in the shrubbery. Stop every one--shoot 'em if they
don't stop. Now Nealman, Van Hope, Killdare--where's the phone?"

Nopp, Nealman, and myself started for the house; Fargo, Major Dell, and
Pescini and Van Hope followed Marten into the more shadowed parts of the
gardens and lawns. Before ever we reached the house we heard their
excited shouts but we paused only an instant. "They can handle him if
they've got him," Nopp said. "We'd better go and do our work."

We divided in the hall. Nopp and I went to the phone, Nealman and Van
Hope, at Nopp's suggestion, to round up all the servants. "Keep 'em in
one room, and watch 'em," Nopp advised. "We'll like enough find the
murderer among them--some domestic jealousy, or something like that.
Don't give any of 'em a chance to get away or to destroy evidence."

I telephoned to Nixon's first. The sleepy, country Central rang long and
often, and at last a drowsy voice answered the ring.

"This Charley Nixon?" I asked.

"Yes." He awakened vividly at the sound of his own name.

"This is Ned Killdare--I met you on the way out. I'm at
Nealman's--Kastle Krags. A man has been murdered here, just a few
minutes ago! I want you to watch the road with your