"Dear, dear, that's too bad." McKelvie laid down the pistol and poked the bullet with his forefinger.
"Another theory gone up in smoke?" asked Jones, with a laugh.
"More or less. Sure the bullet fits the pistol?"
"As sure as human beings can be of anything in this world. We had the fellow from whom both pistol and bullets were purchased examine the weapon."
"So. You're sharper than I'd have given you credit for being."
"The police are not overlooking anything in this case," retorted Jones with some pomposity.
"Exhibit three—two handkerchiefs," muttered McKelvie. "Where did they come from?"
"The blood-stained one was in Mr. Darwin's hand. The other belongs to Mrs. Darwin. As you see, they are identical," explained Jones.
McKelvie sniffed at each one critically in turn, and then without any warning of his intention, passed the blood-stained handkerchief suddenly beneath my nose. Instinctively I drew back, inhaling involuntarily as I did so, and then I blinked and looked at McKelvie. But he was engrossed in reading the sheaf of bills and taking this as a sign that he did not wish his action remarked upon, I busied my brain in trying to recall the name of that delicate fragrance that for one fleeting second had assailed my nostrils when McKelvie brushed my face with the handkerchief. But try as I would I could not remember, and I decided to ask McKelvie the name of the perfume when we were once more alone. In the interest aroused by more pressing matters, however, I completely forgot the trifling episode.
By this time McKelvie had opened the cash box and was engaged in peering at the stoneless ring through his lens.