"Perfectly correct, Mr. Deland."
"Thank you, Mr. Duggan. At any rate, the ownership of the thing is established, which, by the way, Lady Paula, makes no assertion whatever as to incriminating you in this disastrous affair. Miss Debenham, would you mind coming over here for a moment? I would like to look at your dress——"
"My dress, Mr. Deland?"
He smiled at her with disarming frankness.
"No wonder you think I am mad, but—ah, yes! see, right here on this panel—I thought I was not mistaken. If you wouldn't mind turning round a little more toward the middle of the room, Miss Debenham—thank you—right here; those dark stains." He went down on his knees suddenly and sniffed them, rubbed them with his fingers, and then beckoned the mystified Mr. Narkom, who joined him immediately. "You see, Mr. Narkom, what it is? Rather peculiar, isn't it?"
"What the devil are you driving at?" demanded Ross at this juncture, striding around the desk and taking up a stand beside his fiancée as though to shield her from the hands of these merciless probers of human hearts. "I wish to God you and your kind had never showed up here at all, I do, indeed! You always bring trouble in your wake."
"Follow trouble, I think you mean, my friend," supplemented Cleek quietly. "The trouble is generally there first. It is our business to see that it is thrust upon—the right shoulders."
"Then Cynthia—what are you driving at now?"
There was a moment's tense silence. Then Cleek's voice sounded clearly:
"Simply this. Those three stains there—long, narrow ones—upon Miss Debenham's gown (I noticed them this morning at breakfast) are—bloodstains, Mr. Duggan—bloodstains!"