“Oh, somehow, I feel sure he’s a fake. He’s not the real thing,—or I’m greatly mistaken!”
“Let me see that glove found in her hand. Have you it with you?”
Hardy had brought some of the exhibits held by the police, and, taking the glove from his bag, he handed it to Fleming Stone.
Stone looked at the glove hastily, but, raising it to his nose, smelled of it very carefully.
“No,” he said, returning it, “no, the Count is not the man who wielded the black-jack. I’m fairly certain of that.”
“Well, I’m blessed if I can see how you know by smelling! By the way, Mr. Stone, I suppose you heard all about the conversation that Miss Frayne related as taking place in this room after one o’clock that night?”
“Yes, I’ve read the full account of it. What do you think about it?”
“Oh, I think it was the Count, talking to Miss Carrington before he killed her. He has a very low voice, and speaks almost inaudibly always. Then, you see, he is down in her will for ten thousand dollars of those bonds, and he’s very fond of pearls,——”
“What’s that? Who said he was fond of pearls?”
“Oh, maybe you didn’t hear about that. Why, Miss Frayne remembered afterward, that another sentence she heard Miss Carrington say was, ‘I know how very fond you are of pearls.’ She forgot that speech in her evidence, but found it afterward in the written account she had of what she overheard at the door. And his Countship is fond of pearls. He talked a lot about those the lady wore that last evening. He says himself pearls are a hobby with him.”