“Who’s that?” said the constable, sharply. “Oh, you, Mr Butler.”
“Yes; I’ve brought the brandy for Mr Girtle, sir.”
“Never mind, now,” said the policeman. “Set it down. Gentlemen, I’ve got a theory about this here.”
He turned on his bull’s-eye again, as he spoke.
“A theory?” cried Capel, impatiently.
“Yes, sir. You see that crooked knife thing?”
“Yes.”
“And the mark of the bloody hand on the counterpane, where it is dragged?”
“Yes, we saw that.”
“Well, has any one looked under the bed?”