Anthony was standing by the fireplace examining something on the mantelpiece. “What do you make of that, Inspector?” he asked. Holding his right hand to the edge of the mantel, he very carefully swept something into it with his left.
Goodall looked at it curiously. “Looks like a few grains of dust of some kind,” he said. “Sort of dried grass—what do you think?”
Anthony put his nose to it and smelled it. “Pungent,” he exclaimed. “Not exactly aromatic.” He blew it away from the palm of his hand, Goodall watching him.
“Would you care to have a chat with the chambermaid that attends to this room?” inquired Blanchard.
“That’s an idea, certainly,” said Goodall. “Have her up, by all means.”
Blanchard went out and called down the speaking-tube.
“I don’t think we shall find anything more, Inspector,” said Anthony. “I expect——”
“More!” exclaimed Goodall with evident disgust. “I like the ‘more,’ Mr. Bathurst. It seems to me we’ve run across precious little—I don’t know what you think about it.” Anthony grinned, as they both turned to welcome Rabjohns, the chambermaid.
“I’m a Police Inspector,” announced Goodall terrifyingly, “so be careful what you say! When you ‘tidied up’ this room after Mr. and Mrs. Stewart left it—did you destroy any papers or letters that you found here?”
Rabjohns slowly wiped her hands on her apron. “No, sir—that I didn’t. There was nothing left in here, Mr. Inspector, not even a ‘bob’ on the dressing-table.”