“There was a third glass. We found it in the adjoining closet. It had not been used. That third glass has a meaning if only we could find it out.”
A possibility which had risen in my mind faded at these words.
“Three glasses,” I dully repeated.
“And a small flask of cordial. The latter seems pure enough.”
“I cannot understand it.” The phrase had become stereotyped. No other suggested itself to me.
“The problem would be simple enough if it were not for those-marks on her neck. You saw those, too, I take it?”
“Yes. Who made them? What man—”
The lie, or rather the suggestion of a lie, flushed my face. I was conscious of this, but it did not trouble me. I was panting for relief. I could not rest till I knew the nature of the doubt in this man’s mind. If these words, or any words I could use, would serve to surprise his secret, then welcome the lie or suggestion of a lie. “It was a brute’s act,” I went on, bungling with my sentences in anxiety to see if my conclusions fitted in with his own. “Who was the brute? Do you know, Dr. Perry?”
“There were three glasses in those rooms. Only two were drank from,” he answered, steadily. “Tomorrow I may be in a position to answer your question. I am not to-night.”
Why did I take heart? Not a change, not the flicker of one had passed over his countenance at my utterance of the word man. Either his official habit had stood him in wonderful stead, or the police had failed so far to see any connection between this murder and the young girl whose footprints, for all I knew, still lingered on the stairs.