“Thanks. How are you, Mr. Ellett? Yes, I will dine with you, and with pleasure. No soup, thank you,” and he sat down.
For a while there was the ordinary talk of the river, and when, finally, they were left with the tobacco and cigars, Lyndsay having declined the rye whisky, he said:
“I came up to get a little help from you. We have had to-day a very singular and quite unpleasant incident. There is no one can overhear us?”
“No one. I need hardly say how heartily we are at your service. Pray go on. May I ask what has troubled you?”
“Of course. I came to tell you, and then to ask your help or advice. You know all these river men?”
“I thought so. I shall be brief. Last year we buried my youngest child here. I had set up at the head of the grave a simple white stone. To-day I went up with Mrs. Lyndsay to see that it was all in order. To our horror the stone was gone. Of course my wife was painfully disturbed. The grave was trampled; the wild rose-bushes we had set around in a little thicket were beaten down. That is the whole story. I am, as you may fancy, greatly annoyed. I felt that, with your knowledge of the men hereabouts, you might possibly give me some clue. I owe you every apology,” and he turned to Ellett, “for thrusting so personal a calamity into the hours of a holiday, but—”
“You could not have found two people more willing.”
“Let me ask you a few questions,” said Carington.
The young man reflected a moment, and then in quick succession put his queries.
“Yes,” and he told the little he had seen.
“I will look to-morrow, early. Were there several people?”
“The foot-marks seemed alike—the usual many-nailed boot. I did not measure them.”
“I will. The beach is clay up there. Has any one cause to injure you?”
“No one. My wife has been, as usual, all goodness to these poor people.”
“Wait a bit, Oliver. The grave had not been opened?”
“Why should a man want a tombstone?” said Ellett. “An insane person might have done it.”
“No,” returned Carington, thoughtfully. “No, there are none here. No, some one wanted that stone. Why!—by George, I hate to suspect the poor devil!”
“It is a mere guess, a suspicion. I have an idea that Joe Colkett stole that stone.”
“It is a little odd. That, exactly, is my sister’s conclusion.”