The bedroom was of moderate size, with a single window overlooking the front door. The bed was on the right-hand side, the dressing-table before the window. On the left was the fireplace, with an armchair before it, and a small writing-table.
"Everything's as it was," said Parker. "Craikes had that much sense."
"Yes," said Lord Peter. "Very well. Gerald says that when he charged Cathcart with bein' a scamp, Cathcart jumped up, nearly knockin' the table over. That's the writin'-table, then, so Cathcart was sittin' in the armchair. Yes, he was—and he pushed it back violently and rumpled up the carpet. See! So far, so good. Now what was he doin' there? He wasn't readin', because there's no book about, and we know that he rushed straight out of the room and never came back. Very good. Was he writin'? No; virgin sheet of blottin'-paper—"
"He might have been writing in pencil," suggested Parker.
"That's true, old Kill-Joy, so he might. Well, if he was he shoved the paper into his pocket when Gerald came in, because it isn't here; but he didn't, because it wasn't found on his body; so he wasn't writing."
"Unless he threw the paper away somewhere else," said Parker. "I haven't been all over the grounds, you know, and at the smallest computation—if we accept the shot heard by Hardraw at 11:50 as the shot—there's an hour and a half unaccounted for."
"Very well. Let's say there is nothing to show he was writing. Will that do? Well, then—"
Lord Peter drew out a lens and scrutinized the surface of the armchair carefully before sitting down in it.
"Nothing helpful there," he said. "To proceed, Cathcart sat where I am sitting. He wasn't writing; he—You're sure this room hasn't been touched?"
"Certain."