"Let me see them," said Stone. "It may save us quite a search."
It took more to excite Fleming Stone's enthusiasm than it did mine, and he seemed almost unaware of the importance of my statement; but when I took a white paper from my pocket, unfolded it, and showed him the specks of glass I had found in Lawrence's apartment the night before, his flashing eyes showed that he thought it indeed a clue. But he only said quietly: "You should have mentioned this in your statement of the case. Why did you not?"
"The real reason is that I forgot it," I admitted, frankly. "But I had no idea it was important evidence, for I never dreamed these bits could be the head of a pin. I thought them a portion of a broken bottle. You know druggists use small phials of that color for certain prescriptions."
"Some druggists use bottles of this color for poison," said Fleming Stone, "but that doesn't affect our case, for Mr. Pembroke was not poisoned. But it may easily be the head of the pin we were talking about. Where did you find this glass?"
"In George Lawrence's studio," I replied, looking a little shamefaced at my own obvious stupidity.
"Well, you are a clever detective!" said Fleming Stone; but so genial was the smile of mild amusement he turned upon me, that I could not feel hurt at his sarcasm.
"You didn't even tell me that you examined young Lawrence's studio, and you haven't yet told me why you did so. I assume you have no intent to conceal anything from me."
"I have not," I said. "I'm mortified—first that I did not realize the importance of this broken glass, and next because I didn't mention the incident to you. It was a stupid blunder of mine, but I assure you it was not intentional."
"It may mean much, and it may mean nothing," said Fleming Stone, "but it must be investigated. Where, in the studio, was the glass?"