"Haven't you ever heard of blood-tests?" asked Hemingway.
"Yes; but suppose my blood and Mr. Herriard's belong to the same group?" objected Roydon. "I thought of that, and it seemed much safer to get rid of the damned thing. Because it could only lead you down a side-track, honestly!"
"Well, if your story's true, you've given me a great deal of trouble through behaving so foolishly," said Hemingway.
"I'm sorry. Of course, I see now that it was silly of me, but the fact of the matter is that this whole affair is getting on my nerves." A sense of grievance overcame him. "I don't think I've been treated at all well!" he complained. "I was invited down here to a friendly party, and first Mr. Herriard was damned rude to me, and then he got himself murdered, and now I know very well I'm under suspicion, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with me!"
"Well, this handkerchief has a good deal to do with you," said Hemingway sternly. "You deliberately tried to conceal it, and that doesn't look any too good, let me tell you!"
"But I didn't do it! I swear I didn't do it! It isn't Mr. Herriard's blood: it's my own!"
"That'll be for others to find out," said Hemingway, and dismissed him.
The Sergeant drew a breath. "Do you believe him, sir?" "It's about what I thought had happened when you first showed me the handkerchief," admitted Hemingway.
"But that story he put up, about being afraid you'd find it!"
"Might easily be true."