"She would have struggled against Philemon had she had strength to struggle. I think she was asleep when she was struck."
"Ah! And was not standing by the table? How about the blood there, then?"
"Shaken from the murderer's fingers in fright or disgust."
"There was no blood on Philemon's fingers."
"No; he wiped them on his sleeve."
"If he was the one to use the dagger against her, where is the dagger?
Should we not be able to find it somewhere about the premises?"
"He may have buried it outside. Crazy men are supernaturally cunning."
"When you can produce it from any place inside that board fence, I will consider your theory. At present I limit my suspicions of Philemon to the half-unconscious attentions which a man of disordered intellect might give a wife bleeding and dying under his eyes. My idea on the subject is—-"
"Would you be so kind as not to give utterance to your ideas until I have been able to form some for myself?" interrupted a voice from the doorway.
As this voice was unexpected, they all turned. A small man with sleek dark hair and expressionless features stood before them. Behind him was Abel, carrying a hand-bag and umbrella.