“Well, sir, I expect we’ve both got the same conclusion in our heads now. Curious, too, how it’s come about.”
“What’s that, sergeant?”
“That we needn’t dig any deeper to find the man who killed Mr. Millicent. That theory of a criminal returning to the scene of his crime certainly worked in this case.”
“Yes,” said Derrick thoughtfully, “but what brought Martin back?”
“I’ve an idea we’ll get that out of him in a day or two. Have you studied this chap’s face, sir?”
Derrick scrutinized the rigid features. They were gray now, the lips still set in a strange cynical smile. It was not the face of a peddler but had unmistakable signs of birth and breeding. The head was well shaped, the ears small and set close to a finely molded skull, the forehead high and rather broad, the eyes far apart. Nothing of the murderer was suggested here, but much of the dreamer, the visionary, the adventurer of sudden purpose. Over him was the touch of the East, visible in the olive tinge of his skin, the slenderness of hands and wrists, and the faint blueness at the base of his narrow finger-nails. Derrick pondered over the possible history of this man with the build of an aristocrat and the insignia of the Orient. What strange tales those fixed lips might have told. But they were all his secret now.
“He’s not a peddler,” he said, turning to Burke, “and probably never was. We’ll have to depend on Martin and perhaps Perkins for the rest of it. Are you going to have a look at that pack of his?”
It was unrolled on the floor beside its late owner but revealed nothing more than the trinkets Derrick had already seen. The man’s pockets were empty save for a knife and a few coins, and the clothing itself bore no marks that yielded the slightest clue to his identity. Burke made a grimace.
“We’ve drawn a blank this time; now I’ll have a look through the cottage. How long did you say Martin had been with you?”
“Something more than three months now, and he brought all he had on his back. I don’t fancy you’ll find much of interest here.”