Shutting off his flash-lamp, Sir Clinton returned to the landing and bent once more over the body. The cause of death was perfectly apparent: a cord with a rough wooden handle at each end had been slipped round the woman's throat and had been used as a tourniquet on her neck. The deep biting of the cord into the flesh indicated with sufficient plainness the brutality of the killer. Sir Clinton did not prolong his examination, and when he had finished, he drew out his pocket-handkerchief and covered the distorted face of the body. As he did so, Dr. Ringwood descended the stairs behind him.
“I'll need to telephone for the hospital van,” he said. “It's out of the question to leave that girl here in the state she's in.”
Sir Clinton nodded his agreement. Then a thought seemed to strike him.
“Quite off her rocker, I suppose?” he demanded. “Or did she understand you when you spoke to her?”
“Delirious. She didn't even seem to recognise me,” Dr. Ringwood explained shortly.
Then the reason for the Chief Constable's questions seemed to occur to him.
“You mean she might be able to give evidence? It's out of the question. She's got a very bad attack. She won't remember anything, even if she's seen something or heard sounds. You'd get nothing out of her.”
Sir Clinton showed no particular disappointment.
“I hardly expected much.”
Dr. Ringwood continued his way down stairs and made his way to the telephone. When he had sent his message, he walked up again to the first floor. A light was on in one of the rooms, and he pushed open the door and entered, to find Sir Clinton kneeling on the floor in front of an antique chest of drawers.