"He didn't mention this particular cutting to you when he cut it out?"
"No—he said nothing about it. I saw him cut it out, and heard him chuckle as he put it away, but he said—nothing."
"You don't know who this lady is?"
"Oh, no! You see, there's no name beneath it. I suppose there was in the paper, but he cut out nothing but the picture and the bit of margin. But from what he's written there, I conclude that this is a portrait of some woman who had been in trouble with the police at some time or other."
"Obvious!" muttered Hetherwick. He sat silently inspecting the picture for a minute or two.
"Look here," he said suddenly, "I want you to let me help in trying to get at the bottom of this—naturally you want to have it cleared up. And to begin with, let me have this cutting, and for the present don't tell anyone—I mean the police or any inquirers—that I have it. I'd like to have a talk about it to Kenthwaite. You understand? As I was present at your grandfather's death, I'd like to solve the mystery of it. If you'll leave this to me——"
"Oh, yes!" replied Rhona. "But—you think there has been foul play?—that he didn't die a natural death?—that it wasn't just heart failure or——"
The door of the little coffee-room was opened and Matherfield looked in. Seeing Hetherwick there, he beckoned him into the hall, closing the door again as the young barrister joined him. Hetherwick saw that he was full of news, and instantly thought of the man with the stained fingers.
"Well?" he said eagerly, "laid your hands on that fellow?"
"Oh, him?—no!" answered Matherfield. "Not a word or sign of him—so far! But the doctors have finished their post-mortem. And there's no doubt about their verdict. Poisoned!"