“That may have been done some time ago,” I interrupted.
“No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric—only a thread or two, but recognizable.”
“Ah!” I cried. “That was what you sealed up in the envelope.”
“Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp’s own dresses, and quite unimportant. We shall see. Five, this!” With a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candle grease on the floor by the writing-table. “It
or two of the servants were standing round in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his brother.
“What do you think we had better do?”
Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more apparent.
John rattled the handle of Mrs. Inglethorp’s door violently, but with no effect.