“Delighted,” I answered. “Billiard room first?”
“As you please,” said he. We ascended the stairs. In the sunshine of the morning, there seemed to remain no trace of the dreadful secret the room held. The table, bereft of its ghastly burden of a few days since, only spoke of the game it stood for. It was a difficult matter to realize all that had happened since the last game that had been played upon it.
“These chairs were overturned, Bill, and this poker was lying on the floor—remember?”
I did—and I said so. He went full length on the floor and took a magnifying-glass from his pocket.
“I’m rather sceptical about the magnifying-glass stunts you get in detective novels,” he muttered, “but I want an extra-special look at this floor-covering.
“No,” he said as he arose, “I can’t see any signs of any struggle—there are no scratches that would evade the naked eye, of feet moved uncontrollably like in a fight or wrestle. And what is more, Bill, I particularly noticed when Marshall gave the alarm, that although Prescott’s brown shoes were muddy—there was no trace of any mud on the floor here. Think of that, laddie.”
“It might happen so,” I ventured.
“Hardly likely, Bill! There was an appreciable amount of mud on the brown shoes, and one would reasonably expect to find a few traces if Prescott had been engaged in a struggle. In a fight or a wrestle—such as might have taken place here, there is far more pressure of the feet on the ground and certainly more friction than is got by ordinary walking—don’t you see?”
“Yes,” I conceded. “I see what you mean.”
“Yet,” he went on, “I am certain that there were no mud-marks on the floor. Which suggests a number of entertaining possibilities.” He frowned.