Down the
road we could hear the purr of an almost silent motor.
"Somebody is trying to get in to conceal something here," muttered
Kennedy, stifling his disappointment at not getting a closer view
of the intruder.
"Then it was not a suicide," I exclaimed. "It was a murder!"
Craig shook his head sententiously. Evidently he not prepared yet
to talk.
With another look at the body in the broken casket he remarked:
"To-morrow I want to call on Mrs. Phelps and Doctor Forden, and,
if it is possible to find him, Dana Phelps. Meanwhile, Andrews, if
you and Walter will stand guard here, there is an apparatus which
I should like to get from my laboratory and set up here before it
is too late."
It was far past the witching hour of midnight, when graveyards
proverbially yawn, before Craig returned in the car. Nothing had
happened in the meantime except those usual eery noises that one
may hear in the country at night anywhere. Our visitor of the
early evening seemed to have been scared away for good.
Inside the mausoleum, Kennedy set up a peculiar machine which he
attached to the electric-light circuit in the street by a long
wire which he ran loosely over the ground.
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