Drysdale got up quickly.
“She’ll have to appear before the coroner?”
“Of course—she’s practically the only witness. Your place is with her—more especially since you say Delroy himself is out of town.”
“Thank you,” and Drysdale took up his hat. “You’ve helped me a lot,” and with another warm hand-clasp, he was gone.
Godfrey turned back into the room and sat down again before the fire. Drysdale’s story had, indeed, furnished him with new food for thought. So it was a family secret that Grace Croydon was guarding. She had spoken the truth—she had scorned to lie. A secret that affected the family honour. That was conceivable—it furnished the only possible solution of the mystery. He felt that he could reconstruct the drama with some degree of plausibility. He smiled grimly as he drew a pad of paper toward him and got out his pencil. Like all good tragedies, it should be in five acts.
Act I.
The Croydon family possesses a skeleton, and one Thompson holds the key to the closet in the shape of certain papers. He threatens to use them, to display the skeleton to the world. He writes to Miss Croydon, or perhaps to Mrs. Delroy, demanding a price for his papers. Mrs. Delroy is for letting him do his worst; Miss Croydon, less sensible (also perhaps more sensitive), is for trying to buy him off. She overrides her sister, makes an appointment with Thompson, disre-
