Roper looked wise and said nothing.
Baddeley’s mind went back. “He practically refused all information when I questioned him, and told me to mind my own business. If he’s the murderer of Prescott he reckons we’ve got no proof at all ... he’ll try to put up a big bluff. Now where do I stand? All I can put against him so far is a motive, finger-prints on a dagger that has played some part in the crime ... anything else? I can’t put a truculent manner and attitude in as compromising evidence.” He paced the room—backwards and forwards. “Gets a darned sight more complicated every step,” he grumbled.
“This dagger was kept in the drawing-room, wasn’t it, sir?” said Roper.
“So I’m told. On what they called the curio table. What are you driving at?”
“Well, I don’t somehow think the ‘Spider’ ever got into the drawing-room.”
“Marshall may have taken it from the table.”
“Why don’t her finger-prints show then, sir?”
“True ... Major Hornby seems to have been the last person to have used it.”
“He could easily have taken it to his bedroom, sir,” continued Roper.
“Yes, he slept alone. It’s feasible. But why the deuce was Prescott outside that night?” Baddeley blazed. “Tell me that and I’ll tell you a lot more ... nothing I light on seems to have any bearing on that point. And till I know, I’m messing round in the dark.”