Dr. Ringwood walked across to the nearest chair and sat down.
“My brain's too fagged to produce anything of the sort, I'm afraid,” he admitted, “but I'd like to hear anything that would explain the damned business.”
Sir Clinton closed the drawer gently and turned round to face the doctor.
“Oh, it's easy enough,” he said, “whether it's the true solution or not's quite another question. You came here about twenty past ten, were let in by the maid, saw your patient, listened to what the maid had to tell you—lucky for us you took that precaution or we'd have missed all that evidence, since she can't tell us now—and left this house at twenty-five to eleven. We came back again, just an hour later. The business was done in between those times, obviously.”
“Not much theory there,” the doctor pointed out.
“I'm simply trying it over in my mind,” Sir Clinton explained, “and it's just as well to have the time-limits clear to start with. Now we go on. Some time after you had got clear away from here, the murderer comes along. Let's call that person X, just to avoid all prejudice about age or sex. Now X has thought out this murder beforehand, but not very long beforehand.”
“How do you make that out?” Dr. Ringwood demanded.
“Because the two bits of wood which form the handles of the tourniquet are simply pieces cut off a tree, and freshly cut, by the look of the ends. X must have had possession of these before coming into the house—hence premeditation. But if it had been a case of long premeditation, X would have had something better in the way of handles. I certainly wouldn't have risked landing on a convenient branch at the last moment if I'd been doing the job myself; and X, I may say, strikes me as a remarkably cool, competent person, as you'll see.”
“Go on,” the doctor said, making no attempt to conceal his interest.
“Our friend X probably had the cord in his or her pocket and had constructed the rough tourniquet while coming along the road. Our friend X was wearing gloves, I may say.”