Doyle made appropriate comments. So did Guy. George said nothing.
The Inspector took them back to the house to show them the track made by the George-laden rug. He took them to the piece of lawn where Dora had interviewed Mr. Foster and showed them her heel-marks. He took them back to the bank again to show them some blood he had found on a dandelion.
Doyle was loud in his praises. So was Guy. George said nothing. George was not one of your chatty people.
The Inspector’s face became positively alarming in its mysteriousness. He gathered the three close around them, as if suspecting eavesdroppers behind every plantain, and spoke in a voice so low and charged with such importance that the mere words could hardly be distinguished. “And, gents,” whispered the Inspector reverently, “I’ve got a Clue!”
“Not a clue?” cried Doyle.
“A clue, Inspector?” cried Guy.
George cried nothing. But then, George very seldom cried.
“A clue, gents,” affirmed the Inspector. With a flourish he drew from his pocket a muddy and bloody handkerchief. “This ’ere was dropped on the bank by one of the assassins,” he repeated proudly. “Assassin” is a much better word than mere “murderer.”
Once more suitable comments arose.
“Is it marked in any way?” asked Guy, quite gravely. Guy had a wonderful control over his facial muscles.