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She bit her lip and looked at Kennedy sharply.

“Why, why do you and Mr. Andrews worry me? Can’t you see Doctor Forden?”

In her annoyance I fancied that there was a surprising lack of sorrow. She seemed preoccupied. I could not escape the feeling that she was putting some obstacle in our way, or that from the day of the discovery of the vandalism, some one had been making an effort to keep the real facts concealed. Was she shielding some one? It flashed over me that perhaps, after all, she had submitted to the blackmail and had buried the money at the appointed place. There seemed to be little use in pursuing the inquiry, so we excused ourselves, much, I thought, to her relief.

We found Doctor Forden, who lived on the same street as the Phelpses several squares away, most fortunately at home. Forden was an extremely interesting man, as is, indeed, the rule with physicians. I could not but fancy, however, that his hearty assurance that he would be glad to talk freely on the case was somewhat forced.

“You were sent for by Mrs. Phelps, that last night, I believe, while Phelps was still alive?” asked Kennedy.

“Yes. During the day it had been impossible to arouse him, and that night, when Mrs. Phelps and the nurse found him sinking even deeper into the comatose state, I was summoned again. He was beyond hope then. I did everything I could, but he died a few moments after I arrived.”

“Did you try artificial respiration?” asked Kennedy.

“N-no,” replied Forden. “I telephoned here for my respirator, but by the time it arrived at the house it was too late. Nothing had been omitted while he was still struggling with the spark of life. When that went out what was the use?”

“You were his personal physician?”

“Yes.”

“Had you ever noticed that he took any drug?”

Doctor Forden shot a quick glance at Kennedy. “Of course not. He was not a drug fiend.”

“I didn’t mean that he was addicted to any drug. But had he taken anything lately, either of his own volition or with the advice or knowledge of any one else?”

“Of course not.”

“There’s another strange thing I wish to ask your opinion about,” pursued Kennedy, not to be rebuffed. “I have seen his body. It is in an excellent state of preservation, almost lifelike. And yet I understand, or at least it seems, that it was not embalmed.”

“You’ll have to ask the undertaker about that,” answered the doctor brusquely.

It was evident that he was getting more and more constrained in his answers. Kennedy did not seem to mind it, but to me it seemed that he must be hiding something. Was there some secret which medical ethics kept locked in his breast? Kennedy had risen and excused himself.

The interviews had not resulted in much, I felt, yet Kennedy did not seem to care. Back in the city again, he buried himself in his laboratory for the rest of the day, most of the time in his dark room, where he was developing photographic plates or films, I did not know which.

During the afternoon Andrews dropped in for a few moments to report that he had nothing to add to what had already developed. He was not much impressed by the interviews.

“There’s just one thing I want to speak about, though,” he said at length, unburdening his mind. “That tomb and the swamp, too, ought to be watched. Last night showed me that there seems to be a regular nocturnal visitor and that we cannot depend on that town night watchman to scare him off. Yet if we watch up there, he will be warned and will lie low. How can we watch both places at once and yet remain hidden?”

Kennedy nodded approval of the suggestion. “I’ll fix that,” he replied, anxious to return to his photographic labours. “Meet me, both of you, on the road from the station at Woodbine, just as it is getting dusk.” Without another word he disappeared into the dark room.