We fell silent again, while McKnight traced a rough outline of the berths on the white table-cover, and puzzled it out slowly. It was something like this:
“You think he changed the tags on seven and nine, so that when you went back to bed you thought you were crawling into nine, when it was really seven, eh?”
“Probably—yes.”
“Then toward morning, when everybody was asleep, your theory is that he changed the numbers again and left the train.”
“I can’t think of anything else,” I replied wearily.
“Jove, what a game of bridge that fellow would play! It was like finessing an eight-spot and winning out. They would scarcely have doubted your story had the tags been reversed in the morning. He certainly left you in a bad way. Not a jury in the country would stand out against the stains, the stiletto, and the murdered man’s pocket-book in your possession.”
“Then you think Sullivan did it?” I asked.
“Of course,” said McKnight confidently. “Unless you did it in your sleep. Look at the stains on his pillow, and the dirk stuck into it. And didn’t he have the man Harrington’s pocket-book?”
“But why did he go off without the money?” I persisted. “And where does the bronze-haired girl come in?”