Then in
a low, strangely sounding whisper to Harper: "They think the body's in
the Devil's Cauldron. Nothing can get it out if it is. Would some proof
of its presence there be sufficient to settle the fact of her death?"
"That would depend. If the proof was unmistakable, it might pass in the
Surrogate's Court. What is the matter, Hazen?"
"Nothing." The tone was hollow; the whole man sat like an image of death.
"I--I'm thinking--weighing--" he uttered in scattered murmurs. Then
suddenly, "You're not deceiving me, Harper. Some proof will be necessary,
and that very soon, for this man Auchincloss to realize the money?"
"Yes," the monosyllable was as dry as it was short. Harper's patience
with this unnatural brother was about at an end.
"And who will venture to obtain this proof for us? No one. Not even
Ransom would venture down into that watery hole. They say it is almost
certain death," babbled Hazen.
Harper kept silence. Strange forces were at work. The head of another
gruesome tragedy loomed vaguely through the shadows of this already
sufficiently tragic mystery.
"Go on!" suddenly shouted Hazen, leaning forward to the chauffeur. But
the next instant his hand was on the man's sleeve. "No, I have changed my
mind. Here, Staples," he called out as a man came running down the steps,
"take my bag and ask the landlady to prepare me a room.
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