“One hears a lot about flies in amber,” Sir Clinton said, “but this is the first time I've seen one.”
Dr. Ringwood bent over and examined the imprisoned insect.
“That ought to be easy enough to identify,” he commented. “I never saw a fly in amber before; and that one, with its wings half-spread, must be fairly well known to most of the owner's friends.”
“It may have nothing to do with the case, though,” Inspector Flamborough put in. “It's quite on the cards that it was dropped there at the time the house was open for the summer. Some visitor may have lost it, for all one can tell. Or it may belong to either of the Hassendeans.”
Sir Clinton twisted the little object into a vertical position and peered into the cavity which had received the cigarettes’ ends.
“It's not a left-over from summer, Inspector. The tube's got quite a lot of tarry liquid in it. That would have gone viscid if the thing had been lying there for a couple of months. No, it's been used quite recently—within the last day or two, certainly.”
He moved towards the window.
“Just bring that machine of yours, Inspector, and blow some powder over it, please.”
Flamborough obeyed; but the application of the powder revealed nothing except a few shapeless blotches on the stem of the holder.
“Nothing!” Ringwood exclaimed, with more than a tinge of disappointment in his tone.