had leaned over the insecure
fencing of the old shaft to look into its depths; probably to drop
stones into them; that the loose, unmortared parapet had given way with
his weight, and that he had plunged headlong to the bottom. He might
have been pushed in--from behind--of course, but that was conjecture.
Under ordinary circumstances, agreed both doctors, everything would have
seemed to point to accident. And one of them suggested that it was very
probable that what really had happened was this--Hollis, on his way to
call on some person in the neighbourhood, or on his return from such a
call, had crossed the moor, been attracted by inquisitiveness to the old
mine, had leaned over its parapet, and fallen in. Accident!--it all
looked like sheer accident.

In one of the rooms at the police-station, Neale anxiously watched Polke
and Starmidge examine the dead man's clothing and personal effects. The
detective rapidly laid aside certain articles of the sort which he
evidently expected to find--a purse, a cigar-case; the usual small
things found in a well-to-do man's pockets; a watch and chain; a ring or
two. He gave no particular attention to any of these beyond ascertaining
that there was a good deal of loose money in the purse--some twelve or
fifteen pounds in gold--and pointing out that the watch had stopped at
ten minutes to eight.

"That shows the time of the accident," he remarked.

"Are you sure?" suggested Polke doubtfully. "It may merely mean that the
watch ran itself out then."

Starmidge picked up the watch--a stem winder--and examined it.

"No," he said, "it's broken--by the fall. See there!--the spring's
snapped. Ten minutes to eight, Saturday night, Mr. Polke--that's when
this affair happened. Now then, this is what I want!"

From an inner pocket of the dead man's smart morning-coat, he drew a
morocco-leather letter-case, and carefully extracted the papers from it.
With Neale looking on at one side, and Polke at the other, Starmidge
examined every separate paper. Nothing that he found bore any reference
to Scarnham. There were one or two bills--from booksellers--made out to
Frederick Hollis, Esquire. There was a folded playbill which showed that
Mr. Hollis had recently been to a theatre, and--because of some
pencilled notes on its margins--had taken an unusual interest in what he
saw there. There were two or three letters from correspondents who
evidently shared with Mr. Hollis a taste for collecting old