"Here," Malcolm Sage indicated a dark stain on the highly-polished table, "and here," he pointed to a few flecks of ash some four or five inches distant, "are indications that a pipe has remained for some considerable time, long enough for the nicotine to drain through the stem; it was a very foul pipe, Carfon."
"But mightn't that have trickled out in a few minutes, or while the man was here?" objected Inspector Carfon.
"With a wet smoker the saliva might have drained back," said Malcolm Sage, his eyes upon the stain, "but this is nicotine from higher up the stem, which would take time to flow out. As to leaving it on the table, what inveterate smoker would allow a pipe to lie on a table for any length of time unless he left it behind him? The man smoked like a chimney; look at the tobacco ash in the fireplace."
The inspector stared at Malcolm Sage, chagrin in his look.
"Now that photograph, Carfon," said Malcolm Sage.
Taking a letter-case from his breast-pocket, Inspector Carfon drew out a photograph folded in half. This he handed to Malcolm Sage, who, after a keen glance at the grim and gruesome picture, put it in his pocket.
"I thought so," he murmured.
"Thought what, Mr. Sage?" enquired the inspector eagerly.
"Left-handed." When keenly interested Malcolm Sage was more than usually economical in words.
"Clean through the left side of the occipital bone," Malcolm Sage continued. "No right-handed man could have delivered such a blow. That confirms the poker."