"For clews, Mr. Gryce. You must forgive me, but I was seeking for clews. I moved several things. I was hunting for the line of writing which ought to explain this murder."
"The line of writing?"
"Yes. I have not told you what the young girl said as she slipped with her companion into the crowd."
"No; you have spoken of no words. Have you any such clew as that? Miss Butterworth, you are fortunate, very fortunate."
Mr. Gryce's look and gesture were eloquent, but Miss Butterworth, with an access of dignity, quietly remarked:
"I was not to blame for being in the way when they passed, nor could I help hearing what she said."
"And what was it, madam? Did she mention a paper?"
"Yes, she cried in what I now remember to have been a tone of affright: 'You have left that line of writing behind!' I did not attach much importance to these words then, but when I came upon the dying man, so evidently the victim of murder, I recalled what his late visitor had said and looked about for this piece of writing."
"And did you find it, Miss Butterworth? I am ready, as you see, for any revelation you may now make."
"For one which would reflect dishonor on me? If I had found any paper explaining this tragedy, I should have felt bound to have called the attention of the police to it. I did notify them of the crime itself."