“Ramón’s would not be marked A.B.”
“Then it must be your friend’s: the man who was here must have dropped it.”
“He would not have had a rag like this.”
“Then it’s Lotta’s; she is the woman at the lodge; feckless enough for any rag.”
“What would she be doing in front of the verandah?”
“Dropping her handkerchief. Leave it. She will come back for it.”
“I will.”
When he had laid the handkerchief upon the shingle, he examined the floor of the verandah for footprints, but found none that he could read. He entered his study somewhat ill at ease. When he entered, he stood still for a few seconds listening intently: then he looked under the table, behind the chair, behind the curtains and into the outer passage. Finding nothing suspicious, he returned, locked the window door and drew the curtains across it.
“All the same,” he said, “it is just as well to be on the safe side. It probably is a rag, but, as that Harker fellow said, ‘it’s better to be sure than sorry.’ ”
His sister entered the room behind him.