there; there were no papers there. Nor were there any papers
elsewhere in the other pockets which he hastily searched:
there was not even a card with a name on it. But he found a
purse, full of money--banknotes, gold, silver--and in one of
its compartments a scrap of paper folded curiously, after
the fashion of the cocked-hat missives of another age in which
envelopes had not been invented. Bryce hurriedly unfolded
this, and after one glance at its contents, made haste to
secrete it in his own pocket. He had only just done this and
put back the purse when he heard Varner's voice, and a second
later the voice of Inspector Mitchington, a well-known police
official. And at that Bryce sprang to his feet, and when the
mason and his companions emerged from the bushes was standing
looking thoughtfully at the dead man. He turned to
Mitchington with a shake of the head.

"Dead!" he said in a hushed voice. "Died as we got to him.
Broken--all to pieces, I should say--neck and spine certainly.
I suppose Varner's told you what he saw."

Mitchington, a sharp-eyed, dark-complexioned man, quick of
movement, nodded, and after one glance at the body, looked up
at the open doorway high above them.

"That the door?" he asked, turning to Varner. "And--it was
open?"

"It's always open," answered Varner. "Least-ways, it's been
open, like that, all this spring, to my knowledge."