Alone in a desolate house, reputed to be haunted, watching
for some one who had sufficient interest in the place to watch it and
me closely.
It was still early--not later than half-past ten. I had concluded to
keep my vigil until after midnight, and tried to while away the time
with thoughts foreign to the matter in hand.
All in vain, however. Let me force what subject I pleased upon my
mind, it reverted persistently to Mr. Elmsdale and the circumstances
of his death.
"Why did he commit suicide?" I speculated. "If he had lost money, was
that any reason why he should shoot himself?"
People had done so, I was aware; and people, probably, would continue to
do so; but not hard-headed, hard-hearted men, such as Robert Elmsdale
was reputed to have been. He was not so old that the achievement of a
second success should have seemed impossible. His credit was good, his
actual position unsuspected. River Hall, unhaunted, was not a bad
property, and in those days he could have sold it advantageously.
I could not understand the motive of his suicide, unless, indeed, he was
mad or drunk at the time. And then I began to wonder whether anything
about his life had come out on the inquest--anything concerning habits,
associates, and connections.
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