“Thought you Tecs got a lot from looking at the scene of the crime,” Moore jeered. “You haven’t deduced a thing but that the man was stabbed,—and Dr. Pagett told you that.”
Corson took the taunt seriously.
“That finding of tiny clues, such as shreds of clothing, part of a broken cuff-link, a dropped handkerchief, all those things, are just story-book stuff,—they cut no ice in real cases.”
“I’ll bet Sherlock Holmes could find a lot of data just by going over the floor with a lens.”
“He could in a story book,—and do you know why? Because the clews and things, in a story, are all put there for him by the property man. Like a salted mine. But in real life, there’s nothing doing of that sort. Take a good squint at the floor, though, before you remove those stains. You don’t see anything, do you?”
Elated at being thus appealed to by a real, live detective, Moore got down on hands and knees and scrutinized the floor all about where the body of Sir Herbert had lain.
There was nothing indicative to be seen. The floor of the lobby was always kept in proper condition and beyond the slight trace of dust that naturally accumulated between the diurnal washings, the floor gave up no information.
So the gruesome red stains were washed away, and once again the onyx lobby took on its normal atmosphere.
“How you going to work on the case?” asked Moore, eagerly interested.
“I’m going to get the truth out of you!” declared Corson, so suddenly and brusquely that Moore turned white.