Wyatt continued to pace up and down the room.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘I see. But otherwise it was a perfect murder. Think of it – Heaven knows how many finger-prints on the dagger handle, no one with any motive – no one who might not have committed the crime, and by the same reasoning no one who might. It had its moments of horror too, though,’ he said, pausing suddenly. ‘The moment when I came upon Miss Oliphant in the dark – I had to follow the dagger round, you see, to be in at the first alarm. I saw her pause under the window and stare at the blade, and I don’t think it was until then that I realized that there was blood on it. So I took it from her. It was an impulsive, idiotic thing to do, and when the alarm did come the thing was in my own hand. I didn’t see what they were getting at at first, and I was afraid I hadn’t quite killed him, although I’d worked out the blow with a medical chart before I went down there. I took the dagger up to my own room. You nearly found me with it, by the way.’
Abbershaw nodded.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I think it was instinct, but as you came in from the balcony I caught a glimpse of something in your hand, and although I didn’t see what it was, I couldn’t get the idea of the dagger out of my mind.’
‘Two flaws,’ said Wyatt, and was silent.
The atmosphere in the pleasant room had become curiously cold, and Abbershaw shivered. The sordid glossy photograph lay upon the floor, and the pretty childish face with the expression of innocence which had now become so sinister smiled up at him from the carpet.
‘Well, what are you going to do?’
It was Wyatt who spoke, pausing abruptly in his feverish stride.
Abbershaw did not look at him.
‘What are you going to do?’ he murmured.