“Yes.”
“Well, then, the fellow who did it seems to have come in here and escaped there, after getting a cut with that crooked knife.”
He turned on his bull’s-eye lantern, and made the light play from where the body lay, over the Turkey carpet, to the window, where he turned off the light, for there was sufficient for him to see and examine the seat and sill.
No stains—no marks of hands on the window, no footmarks outside on the leads—not a spot.
He shook his head, and came back.
“Well, my man?” said Mr Girtle.
“Don’t be in a hurry, sir. Law moves slow and sure. I was in the country before I got out of the rural into the metropolitan.”
“What has that to do with this?” cried Artis.
“Everything, sir,” said the constable, turning sharply on the young man, and watching him narrowly. “I’ve known cases where windows have been set open to make it seem that some one’s gone through.”
“But the murderer is not in the house,” said Mr Girtle, uneasily; “and we suspect—”