“I don’t say I believe she did do it,” Moore began, “but I have to say she could have done it that way. She must have known just about the time he’d come home——”
“That’s not difficult to assume,” Corson defended his theory, “he probably told her that. And she could have waited around some time,—it was a mild night.”
“But how could she be sure she’d have the chance in the lobby?” asked Gibbs, his incredulity fast dwindling.
“Oh, she wasn’t sure. She took a chance. I mean, she may have waylaid him outside, don’t you see, and kept him there talking until she saw Moore go up in the elevator with somebody. This place is so brightly lighted that any one outside could see that. Or they could have been inside, standing in the shadow of the big pillars for a long time,—unnoticed.”
“Have you any clews?” asked Bob Moore of the detectives.
“Dropped handkerchiefs and such like?” asked Gibbs, mockingly. “No; and if there were footprints, they’re washed away now. But those things are only for story-books,—such as you’re eternally reading, Moore.”
“I do read a lot of ’em, and it’s astonishing, but most always a criminal leaves some trace.”
“In the stories,—yes. In real life, they’re not so obliging. But let’s look at the spot. We might get an idea,—if nothing more tangible.”
The three went along the lobby till they reached the place where Sir Herbert had breathed his last. Marks had been drawn to indicate the blood spots that were so quickly washed off, and these still showed clearly. The body had been found crumpled on the floor, in the angle made by the great square base of an onyx pillar and the wall.
They saw, of course, no traces of any personality, but as they looked each began to reconstruct the scene mentally.