What had been the instrument? Was it a dagger? and, if so, what kind of dagger? George Gerard had never seen a dagger thin enough to inflict that fine, narrow slit through which the blood had oozed so slowly. The crimson stream that stained coverlet and floor had flowed from the livid lips of the corpse, betokening hæmorrhage of the lungs.
There had been a struggle before that fatal wound was given. On the round, white wrist of the dead a purple bruise showed where a savage hand had gripped that lovely arm; on the right shoulder, from which the loose night-dress had fallen, appeared the marks of strong fingers that had fastened their clutch there. The nurse showed Gerard these bruises.
‘They tell a tale, don’t they?’ she said.
‘If we could only read it aright,’ sighed Gerard.
‘It looks as if she had fought for her life, poor soul,’ suggested the nurse.
Gerard made no further remark, but stood beside the bed, looking round him with thoughtful, scrutinizing gaze, as if he would have asked the very walls to tell him the secret of the crime they had looked upon a few hours before.
‘The police have been here and have discovered nothing?’ he said, interrogatively.
‘Whatever they’ve discovered they’ve kept to themselves,’ answered the nurse, ‘but I don’t believe it’s much.’
‘Did they go in there?’ asked Gerard, pointing to the open door of that small inner room, a mere den, where Jack Chicot had painted in the days when he cherished the hope of earning his living as a painter. Here of late he had drawn his wood-blocks, and here, on a wretched narrow couch, he had slept.
‘Yes, they went in,’ replied the nurse, ‘but I’m sure they didn’t find anything particular there.’