"You may be right."
"And there's no doubt he put it in the incinerator this morning, just as the gardener said."
"Took his time about getting rid of it, didn't he?"
The Sergeant frowned. "Yes," he admitted. "But maybe he didn't think it was vital to destroy it while Stephen Herriard was still under suspicion. After all, if he murdered old Herriard, and planted that cigarette-case in the room, he'd be pretty sure he'd diverted suspicion from himself, wouldn't he? It was you letting it be known that Stephen was more or less in the clear that sort of stampeded him, like you thought it might."
"Ah!" said Hemingway, stirring the handkerchief with his pencil.
A little crestfallen, the Sergeant said: "You don't think it's important, Chief?"
"I don't say that. It may be. Of course, I'm not an expert, but I'd have liked these highly lavish bloodstains to have gone a bit browner. However, I'll see Roydon as soon as he comes in, and if I don't get anything out of him we'll get this tested. Anything else?"
"Yes," said the Sergeant, his slow grin spreading once more over his face. "This!"
Hemingway saw the mutilated book in his hand, and ejaculated: "You aren't going to tell me - Well, I'll be damned!" He took the book from the Sergeant, and flicked over the scorched pages. "I told you so!" he said. "Someone in this house couldn't take it. I'm bound to say I couldn't either. Well, it's your find, my lad. You can give it back to the old lady, and get the credit for a piece of smart detection."
"Thank you, Chief, but considering the state it's in it doesn't seem to me there's going to be much credit attached to it!" Ware retorted. "I'd just as soon you gave it back to her."