No footprints. No convenient cuff-link dropped, or similar clue. Only the trampled grass, the evil lane, the close-pressing elms.
"I'll be a—'' he began aloud.
His last match burnt his fingers, and he dropped it. He returned to the Fanes' house and opened the gate, where a shadow rose up in front of him.
But it was only Frank Sharpless.
"Who's there?" demanded Sharpless's voice out of the gloom. "Me."
"Oh. What time is it?"
"I don't know. Must be past eleven. Frank, have you seen anybody hanging about here?"
It took some little while to make Sharpless understand this question. He seemed dazed, and so completely in anguish that Courtney's concern for Ann was almost lost in pity. He remembered that Vicky Fane was dying of lockjaw up there in an airless room.
"Attacked Ann?" Sharpless kept repeating stupidly. "Where? When? Why" Though he was trying to focus on this, he could not do so. "Was she hurt?"
"No. Only a bruise and a torn dress."