Cray meditated. Here was a point of evidence. Lockwood was not the sort to absent-mindedly paw over a chair back. He was doing it on purpose. For what reason? What reason could be, save to erase some evidence?
Cray examined the chair. It had a frame of shiny black wood, while seat and back were covered with a dark plush of a fine soft quality.
Cray drew his fingers across the back. They left a distinct trail of furrows in the fabric.
Ito, watching, nodded his head, gravely.
“Not finger-prints,” Cray said to himself—“but, maybe finger-marks. Whose?”
“You surely saw this, Ito?”
“Yes, sir; and Miss Peyton also saw. She was then in the doorway, asking Mr. Lockwood to come to breakfast.”
Cray went in search of Helen and put the question to her suddenly.
“What was Gordon Lockwood doing, when you went to call him to breakfast, Monday morning?”
“He was—I don’t remember.”