"What else can I do? Unless the whole thing's a quadruple-put-up job, with everybody lying, what else can I do? I'm bound to accept it."
"All right. Do you also believe that nobody could have got in from outside?"
"Ah! That I do, and I don't mind admitting it."
H.M. looked distressed.
"So. Then, according to the evidence, there's only one explanation that can be true. It's been an odd blind spot that nobody seems to have noticed before."
"If you mean," retorted Masters, regarding him with broad and fishy skepticism, "that Mr. Arthur Fane exchanged the daggers himself… well, I'll just say ha-ha and let it go at that. Mr. Fane knew he was going to be stabbed with that dagger. He insisted on it. He had a spot drawn over his heart so it couldn't be missed. Don't tell me any man plans suicide in quite that way. But Mr. Fane was the only person who did go near that table."
H.M. sighed.
"Got it," he said.
"Got what?"
"The blind spot. Burn me, we've been repeatin' the story about nobody goin' near the table so often that it's stopped having any meaning.