t was just over, and he
was thinking of going home to his lunch when the superintendent of
police came into the committee-room and drew him aside.

"I've bad news for you, Mr. Mayor," he announced in a whisper. "Your
clerk--he hasn't been at work this morning, I suppose?"

"Well?" demanded Mallalieu, nerving himself for what he felt to be
coming. "What about it?"

"He's met with a bad accident," replied the superintendent. "In fact,
sir, he's dead! A couple of men found his body an hour or so ago in
Hobwick Quarry, up on the moor, and it's been brought down to the
mortuary. You'd better come round, Mr. Mayor--Mr. Cotherstone's there,
now."

Mallalieu followed without a word. But once outside the Town Hall he
turned to his companion.

"Have you made aught out of it?" he asked. "He's been away, so his
landlady says, since Saturday afternoon: I sent round to inquire for him
when he didn't turn up this morning. What do you know, like?"

"It looks as if it had been an accident," answered the superintendent.
"These men that found him noticed some broken railings at top of the
quarry. They looked down and saw a body. So they made their way down and
found--Stoner. It would seem as if he'd leaned or sat on the railings
and they'd given way beneath him, and of course he'd pitched headlong
into the quarry. It's fifty feet deep, Mr. Mayor! That's all one can
think of. But Dr. Rockcliffe's with him now."

Mallalieu made a mighty effort to appear calm, as, with a grave and
concerned face, he followed his guide into the place where the doctor,
an official or two, and Cotherstone were grouped about the dead man. He
gave one glance at his partner and Cotherstone gave one swift look at
him--and there was something in Cotherstone's look which communicated a
sudden sense of uneasy fear to Mallalieu: it was a look of curious
intelligence, almost a sort of signal. And Mallalieu experienced a vague
feeling of dread as he turned to the doctor.

"A bad job--a bad job!" he muttered, shaking his head and glancing
sideways at the body. "D'ye make aught out of it, doctor? Can you say
how it came about?"

Dr. Rockcliffe pursed up his lips and his face became inscrutable. He
kept silence for a moment--when he spoke his voice was unusually stern.

"The lad's neck is broken, and his spine's fractured," he said in a low
voice. "Either of those injuries was enough to cause death. But--look at
that!"

He pointed to a contusion which showed i