He nodded meditatively. "Yet I like to imagine how Monsieur Lecoq would approach it. Would he believe it was a murder simply because it so appeared? Has it occurred to you that Mees Holladay truly might have visited her father, and that his death was not a murder at all, but an accident?"
"An accident?" I repeated. "How could it be an accident? How could a man be stabbed accidentally in the neck? Besides, even if it were an accident, how would that explain his daughter's rushing from the building without trying to save him, without giving the alarm? If it wasn't a murder, why should the woman, whoever she was, be frightened? How else can you explain her flight?"
He was looking at me thoughtfully. "All that you say is ver' true," he said. "It shows that you have given to the case much thought. I believe that you also have a fondness for crimes of mystery," and he smiled at me. "Is it not so, Mistair Lester?"
"I had never suspected it," I laughed, "until this case came up, but the microbe seems to have bitten me."
"Ah, yes," he said doubtfully, not quite understanding.
"And I've rather fancied at times," I admitted, "that I should like to take a hand at solving it—though, of course, I never shall. Our connection with the case is ended."
He shot me a quick glance, then lighted another cigarette.
"Suppose it were assigned to you to solve it," he asked, "how would you set about it?"
"I'd try to find the mysterious woman."
"But the police, so I understand, attempted that and failed," he objected. "How could you succeed?"