The detective paused for a moment to get a general view, looking, in the light of the General’s suggestion, for either hand or foot marks, anything like a trace of the passage of a feminine skirt, across the dusty surface.
But nothing was to be seen, nothing definite or conclusive at least. Only here and there a few lines and scratches that might be encouraging, but proved little.
Then the Commissary, drawing nearer, called attention to some suspicious spots sprinkled about the window, but above it towards the roof.
“What is it?” asked the detective, as his colleague with the point of his long fore-finger nail picked at the thin crust on the top of one of these spots, disclosing a dark, viscous core.
“I could not swear to it, but I believe it is blood.”
“Blood! Good Heavens!” cried the detective, as he dragged his powerful magnifying glass out of his pocket and applied it to the spot. “Look, M. le Juge,” he added, after a long and minute examination. “What say you?”
“It has that appearance. Only medical evidence can positively decide, but I believe it is blood.”
“Now we are on the right track, I feel convinced. Some one fetch a ladder.”
One of these curious French ladders, narrow at the top, splayed out at the base, was quickly leaned against the car, and the detective ran up, using his magnifier as he climbed.
“There is more here, much more, and something like—yes, beyond question it is—the print of two hands upon the roof. It was here she climbed.”