“So far as I know, I’ve not been making any great alteration in it,” he said.
“But it’s all covered wi’ blood,” came the disturbing statement.
A handkerchief soon gave evidence that Bates was not exaggerating. Miss—or is it Madam?—Dorothy Perkins can scratch as well as look sweet, and a thorn had opened a small vein in Grant’s cheek which bled to a surprising extent.
“Oh, it is nothing,” he said. “I remember now—a rose shoot caught me as I went back into the dining-room a moment ago. I shouted for you to come and see this.”
Soon the two were examining the rope and the staple.
“Now who put that there?” said Bates, not asking a question but rather stating a thesis.
“It was not here yesterday,” commented his master, accepting all that Bates’s words implied.
“No, sir, that it wasn’t. I was a-cuttin’ the lawn till nigh bed-time, an’ it wasn’t there then.”
Grant was himself again. He stooped and grabbed the rope.
“Suppose we solve the mystery,” he said.