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“For instance, in a fight a blow might be struck and the recipient fall dead. If the medical examiner should find nothing on holding the autopsy which would have caused sudden death, he can testify that a shock to the solar plexus will cause death and that the post-mortem examination will give no evidence to support or disprove the statement. The absolute absence, however, of any reason or of injury to the other organs will add weight to his testimony, evidence of the blow being present.”

“And you think this was such a case?” asked Kennedy, with just a trace of a challenge in his tone.

“Certainly,” replied the Coroner. “Certainly. We know that a blow was struck–in all probability hard enough to affect the solar plexus.”

It was evident, in his mind at least, that young Ferris was guilty and Kennedy rose to go, refraining from antagonizing him by further questions.

We next visited the county court house, which was not far from the doctor’s office. There, the sheriff, a young man, met us and seemed willing to talk over the evidence which so far had been unearthed in the case.

In his office was a trunk, a cheap brown affair, in which the body of the unfortunate steward, Benson, had been found.

“Quite likely the trunk had been carried to the spot in a car and thrown off,” the sheriff explained. “A couple of boys happened to find it. They told of their find and one of the constables opened the trunk, then called us up here. In the trunk was the body of a man, crouched, the head forced back between the knees.”

“I’d like to see Benson’s body,” remarked Kennedy.

“Very well, I’ll go with you,” returned the sheriff. “It’s at the undertaker’s–our only local morgue.”

As we walked slowly up the street, the sheriff went on, just to show that country as well as city detectives knew a thing or two. “There are just two things in which this differs from the ordinary barrel or trunk murder you read about.”

“What are they?” encouraged Craig.

“Well, we know the victim. There wasn’t any difficulty about identifying him. We know it wasn’t really a Black Hand crime, although everything seems to have been done to make it look like one, and the body was left in the most lonely part of the country.

“And then the trunk. We have traced it easily to the Club House. It was Benson’s own trunk–had been up in his own room, which was locked.”

“His own trunk?” repeated Craig, suddenly becoming interested. “How could anyone take it out, without being seen? Didn’t anyone hear anything?”

“No. Apparently not. None of the other servants seem to have heard a thing. I don’t know how it could have been got out, especially as his door was locked and we found the keys on him. But–well, it was. That’s all.”

We had reached the undertaker’s.

The body of Benson was horribly mangled about the head and chest, particularly the mouth. It seemed as if a great hole had been torn in him, and he must have died instantly. Kennedy examined the grewsome remains most carefully.

What had done it, I wondered? Could the man have been drugged, perhaps, and then shot?

“Maybe it was a dum-dum bullet,” I suggested, “one of those that mushrooms out and produces such frightful wounds.”

“But assuming it entered the front, there is no exit in the back,” the sheriff put in quickly, “and no bullet has been found.”

“Well, if he wasn’t shot,” I persisted, “it must have been a blow, and it seems impossible that a blow could have produced such an effect.”

The sheriff said nothing, evidently preferring to gain with silence a reputation for superior wisdom. Kennedy had nothing better than silence to offer, either, though he continued for a long time examining the wounds on the body.

Our last visit in town was to Fraser Ferris himself, to whom the sheriff agreed to conduct us. Ferris was confined in the grim, dark, stone, vine-clad county jail.