We didn't. Having something definite to do, we did it thoroughly, and two men and a boy fingered every one of Vicky Van's available belongings in an amazingly short space of time.
"Now for this chest," said Fibsy, indicating a large low box on rollers that he pulled out from under the couch.
It was locked, but Stone picked it open, and threw back the cover. At the bottom of it, beneath several other gowns, we found the costume Vicky had worn the night of the murder!
"My good land!" ejaculated Fibsy, "the gold-fringed rig! Ain't it classy!"
Stone lifted out the dress, heavy with its weight of gold beads, and held it up to view. On the flounces were stains of blood! And from the wrinkled folds fell, with a clatter to the floor, the missing carving-knife!
I stooped to pick up the knife.
"'Scuse me, Mr. Calhoun," cried Fibsy, grasping my hand, "don't touch it! Finger prints, you know!"
"Right, boy!" and Stone nodded, approvingly. "Pick it up, Fibsy."
"Yessir," and taking from his pocket a pair of peculiar shaped tongs, Terence carefully lifted the knife and laid it on the glass-topped dressing table.
"Probly all smudged anyway," he muttered, squinting closely at the knife. "But there's sure some marks on it! Gee, Mr. Stone, there's sumpum doin'!" His eyes shone and his skinny little fingers trembled with excitement of the chase.