would misunderstand. So I took what seemed the best course. She had no friends here who would inquire.
"It is waiting outside my door. I FEEL it. It compels me through my thoughts. My hand keeps on writing. I must not fall asleep. I must think only of what I am writing. I must"
Then came the words I had seen when Mrs. Malkin had handed me the book. They were written very large. In places, the pen had dug through the paper. Though they were scrawled, I read them at a glance:
"Not that! Oh, my God, anything but that! Anything"
By what strange compulsion was the hand forced to write down what was in the brain; even to the ultimate thoughts; even to those final words?
The gray light from outside, slanting down through two dull little windows, sank into the sodden hole near the inner wall. The coroner and I stood in the cellar, but not too near the hole.
A small, demonstrative, dark man—the chief of detectives—stood a little apart from us, his eyes intent, his natural animation suppressed. We were watching the stooped shoulders of a police constable, who was angling in the well.
"See anything, Walters?" inquired the detective, raspingly.
The policeman shook his head.
The little man turned his questioning to me.
"You're quite sure?" he demanded.
"Ask the coroner. He saw the diary," I told him.
"I'm afraid there can be no doubt," the coroner confirmed, in his heavy, tired voice.
He was an old man, with lacklustre eyes. It had seemed best to me, on the whole, that he should read my uncle's diary. His position entitled him to all the available facts. What we were seeking in the well might especially concern him.
He looked at me opaquely now, while the policeman bent double again. Then he spoke—like one who reluctantly and at last does his duty. He nodded toward the slab of gray stone, which lay in the shadow to the left of the well.
"It doesn't seem very heavy, does it?" he suggested, in an undertone.
I shook my head. "Still, it's stone," I demurred. "A man would have to be rather strong to lift it."
"To lift it—yes." He glanced about the cellar. "Ah, I forgot," he said, abruptly. "It is in my office, as part of the evidence." He went on, half to himself: "A man—even though not very strong—could take a stick—for instance, the stick that is now in my office—and prop up the slab. If he wished to look into the well," he whispered.
The policeman interrupted, straightening again with a groan, and laying his electric torch beside the well.
"It's breaking my back," he complained. "There’s dirt down there. It seems loose, but I can't get through it. Somebody'll have to go down."
The detective cut in: "I'm lighter than you, Walters."
"I'm not afraid, sir."
"I didn't say you were," the little man snapped. "There's nothing down there, anyway—though we'll have to prove that, I suppose." He glanced truculently at me, but went on talking to the constable: "Rig the rope around me, and don't bungle the knot. I've no intention of falling into the place."
