The storage room was entered first as upon the earlier visit, but Ashton-Kirk wasted but little time upon it. In the front room, however, he examined things with a minuteness that amazed Pendleton. And yet everything was done quickly; like a keen-nosed hound, the investigator went from one object to another; nothing seemed to escape him, nothing was too small for his attention. One of the first things that he did was to get a chair and plant it against the lettered door that led directly into the hall. At the top was a gong with a spring-hammer, one of the sort that rings its warning whenever the door is opened; and this the investigator examined with care.
He then passed into the railed space where the body had lain and where the darkened trail of blood still bore ghastly testimony to what had occurred. The man’s singular eyes scanned the floor, the walls, the flat-topped desk. On this last his attention again became riveted; and once more Pendleton heard his breath drawn sharply between his teeth.
“When Hume was struck upon the head,” said Ashton-Kirk, after a moment, “he was standing at this desk. He had just sprung up, probably upon hearing a sound of some kind. See where the chair is pushed back against the wall, just as he would have pushed it had he arisen hastily. When he struck he fell across the desk.” He pointed to a dark trickle of blood down the back of the piece of furniture in question. “That is the result of the blow upon the head, and probably flowed from the mouth or nostrils. After the first senseless lurch the body settled back and slid to the position in which it was found. Here is a blotting pad, a small pair of shears, a box of clips and a letter scale upon the floor where the sliding body dragged them. The top of the desk is of polished wood; it is perfectly smooth; there are no crevices or anything of the sort to catch hold of anything. When the body slipped from it, it must have swept everything with it, cleanly. And yet,” bending forward over the desk and picking up a minute red particle, “here, directly in the center, we find this.”
“What is it?” asked Pendleton, eagerly.
Ashton-Kirk placed the red particle on his palm and held it out. It was shaped like a keystone, and had apparently been cut from something that had been printed upon.
“It is that portion of a railroad ticket which a conductor’s punch bites out, and which litters the floor and the seats in trains. Have you never had one fall from your clothes after a railroad journey?”
Pendleton looked at the tiny red fragment, and then at the desk.
“If Hume fell across the desk, as you’ve just said,” he remarked, slowly, “and pulled all these other things to the floor with him—why, Kirk, this bit of card, in the very center of the polished top—it must have dropped there afterwards.”
“Exactly,” said Ashton-Kirk. “And now, if you don’t mind, just step out into the hall and ask Paulson to come up.”
Pendleton did so; and while he was gone, Ashton-Kirk placed the red fragment carefully in his card-case. When the other reentered with Paulson at his heels, he asked:
“Have any of the policemen detailed here been out of town recently?”
“No,” replied Paulson. “There have been five besides myself, and they have been on duty every day.”
“Thank you,” said the investigator. And as the policeman went out, he made his way into the kitchen. Here, however, his examination was brief, as was that of the bedroom also. At length he paused, his hands in his pockets, his head thrown back, satisfaction lighting his dark, keen face.
“That is all, I think,” said he. “There have only been a few pages, but the print has been exceedingly good and the matter of much interest.” He looked at a clock that ticked solemnly upon a shelf. “We have half an hour to reach my place and dress,” he said. “I’m afraid that we’ll be late, and that Edouard will be annoyed. His cookery is so exquisitely timed that it is scarcely the better for delay.”
“Wait a minute,” said Pendleton, grasping his friend’s arm. “What part did Edyth—Miss Vale—play in all this? I can see you have formed in your mind some sort of completed action. Where does she come into it?”
“Completed!” Ashton-Kirk smiled into the pale, set face of his friend. “You give me too much credit, old chap. I have some undoubted scenes from the drama; but most of the remainder are merely detached lines and bits of stage business. As to Miss Vale,” here the smile vanished, “I have been unable to make up my mind just how far she is concerned, if at all. However, perhaps twenty-four hours will make it all clear enough. In the meantime I will say this to you: Don’t jump to harsh conclusions, Pen. You know this young lady well. How far do you suppose she would go to the perpetrating of a downright crime?”
“Not a step!” answered Pendleton, promptly.
“Then,” said Ashton-Kirk, “until we know positively that she has done so, stick to that.”
VII
The Schwartz-Michael Bayonet
As Ashton-Kirk and Pendleton sat in the former’s library that evening after dinner, there came a knock upon the door and Fuller entered briskly. In his hand he carried a paper parcel which he laid upon a stand at the investigator’s elbow.
“This is the bayonet, sir,” said he. “Mr. Stillman, the coroner, objected to letting me have it at first, but changed his mind after I had talked to him for a while.”
“Did you take the photograph to Berg in Christie Place?”
“Yes, sir. He recognized it at once as that of the person in question.”
“And you made inquiries upon the other point?”
“I did. Neither Mr. Stillman nor any of the men who removed the body of Hume have been out of
