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moment’s pause, then he added, “If you want my opinion, Mr. Rankin, it appears to me you’re pursuing a delusion. If I am a little diffident about speaking it is only because I see that I am included in your thoughts as well as the two boys. Of course, you may have reasons that I know nothing of—”
    â€œI haven’t,” the other interrupted. “All that I know, you know.”
    â€œThen I don’t see what you expect to find at Greenlawn, unless you look for something among Carson’s private papers. They are all in this room, and I am willing to stretch a point and submit them to your inspection, but I can tell you beforehand that your search will be in vain. As for Harry and Fred, it seems to me absurd even to entertain the possibility of their guilt of so black a crime.”
    â€œThen just what is your opinion, Mr. Mawson?”
    â€œOne that I dislike to utter,” returned the lawyer with some hesitation. “At least, part of it, and that the most likely. It is forced on me by circumstances. It seems to me that there are just two possibilities. In the first place, I reflect that Colonel Phillips spent several years of his life in the Philippines and other parts of the Far East, and it isn’t only in novels that the Orient is filled with strange enmities and mysterious crimes. Some act of Carson’s, official or personal, some wrong, fancied or real, of many years ago, may have found its tragic sequel here on the Jersey golf links. Secondly, my long legal experience has taught me that any man’s life is apt to contain a secret, a dark and shameful secret sometimes, that remains unsuspected even by his oldest and dearest friends, and that may drive him to any desperate deed, even the most desperate of all, to bury it.”
    â€œThen you admit the theory of suicide?”
    â€œMerely because as a possibility it cannot rightfully be excluded. Before Fred and Harry I rejected it, not to wound their sensibilities; and to me also the thought of self-destruction in connection with Carson Phillips is—well—distasteful. But reason requires me to admit it. The point is, the motive.”
    â€œThere is nothing here?” Rankin waved his hand about the room.
    â€œNothing. Everything is in the best possible condition, with the exception of one unfortunate financial deal, and that was hardly a serious inconvenience; it certainly was not vital enough to serve as the cause of tragedy. There is a lawsuit on with an estate in Connecticut; nothing serious.”
    â€œWhat was the financial deal? A speculation?”
    â€œYes. Against my advice. United Traffic. Of course, you know the circumstances; the bottom fell out of it two weeks ago. I just got rid of the last of it yesterday; you see what it amounted to.”
    The lawyer pointed to an entry in one of the books before him, on which the ink was scarcely dry:
    2000 United Traffic 57 $114,000.00
    1000 United Traffic 56 56,000.00
    2000 United Traffic 52 104,000.00
    â€œHe bought around a hundred and twenty, so the loss amounted to something over three hundred thousand,” Mawson explained. “But, of course, it was only a temporary inconvenience.”
    â€œOf course.” Rankin agreed. “Mighty imprudent, though, for Carson Phillips—but financial difficulties are beside the question. There is nothing else?”
    â€œNo. The best way, perhaps, would be to look yourself, but I know every paper in the room, and there is nothing. That isn’t to be wondered at. If there were anything in Carson’s life that might have led—as it did lead—to this, he wouldn’t have left evidence of it lying around where even I could see it. No, if my theory is correct, Mr. Rankin, the mystery of our friend’s death isn’t going to be easy to solve. For my part, I am not even convinced that it came from that little green spot that Wortley showed us. I’ll have to have