"H'm, I thought as much! Now, as to motive, sir; have you got any theory?"
"Robbery, I suppose. Ah"—as the sergeant shook his head with a wise air—"you don't think so, then!"
"No, I don't, sir. Maybe, of course, but I doubt it. A man don't use a knife when his fists will do, as a rule. And look you here, sir," said the sergeant, leaning forward to place his broad hand for a moment upon the Doctor's knee—"when you find a fine old gentleman with a bald crown or a 'spectable old lady with a bag and umbrella, tipped over neat in a corner, you may put it down to robbery; for you won't find anything in their pockets, I'll wager. But you find a good-looking fellow with a ha'porth of rat poison inside of him that he didn't put there himself, or a young woman stabbed that's as handsome as that one"—jerking his head toward the door—"and you won't go far wrong if you put it down to jealousy."
The Doctor sat silently pondering. The sergeant slowly filled his glass again.
"You've examined her dress, of course, sir? Anything in the pockets?"
"Nothing—absolutely nothing!"
"Nothing torn? No appearance of having been robbed?"
"No. Merely the cut where the blow was given."
"Just so, sir. About the weapon—an ordinary knife, should you say?"
"No; from the appearance and general character of the wound it was caused by a two-edged blade."