The chief went out on the porch and called across the yard of No. 7 to one of his men on guard at No. 5:
"Simpson, when a young man—name's Morley—gets there and asks for me, tell him to come up here to Number Nine."
He came back and referred to Bristow's offer of help:
"For instance?"
"Well," Bristow answered, "as we see it now, there are three possibilities: Campbell, or Morley, or some unknown man or woman, coloured or white, bent on robbery."
"So far, though, we haven't found any signs of robbery."
"I have."
"What were they?"
"The middle, third and little fingers of Mrs. Withers' left hand were scratched, badly scratched, as if rings had been pulled from them by force. And there was a deep line on the back of her neck. It looked black just now, but it was red when it was inflicted. It was too thin to have been made by a finger, but it might have been caused by somebody's having tugged at a chain about her neck until it broke."
"The thunder you say! I didn't notice any of that."