“This didn't do it. It leaves a mark deep in the middle and fading out on each side.”
He came back to the body and scanned the mark once more.
“This thing on the wrist hasn't got any middle. It's fairly even, except for that sharp section.”
A thought seemed to strike him and he pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket, adjusted the focus, and made a minute inspection of the dead man's wrist.
“I thought it might have been a rope,” he explained as he put away his lens with a disappointed air. “But there's no regular pattern there such as a rope leaves. What do you think of it, Sir Clinton?”
“Got a piece of chalk in your pocket, inspector?” the chief constable inquired.
Armadale's face showed some astonishment, which he endeavoured to conceal as well as he could.
“No, Sir Clinton, I haven't.”
“Are you thinking of bringing a photographer up here to take a souvenir picture?”
The inspector considered for a moment or two.