As usual when one of his pet theories was attacked, Hotchkiss looked aggrieved.
“My dear sir,” he expostulated, “don’t you understand what bearing this has on the case? How was the murdered man lying when he was found?”
“On his back,” I said promptly, “head toward the engine.”
“Very well,” he retorted, “and what then? Your heart lies under your fifth intercostal space, and to reach it a right-handed blow would have struck either down or directly in.
“But, gentleman, the point of entrance for the stiletto was below the heart, striking up! As Harrington lay with his head toward the engine, a person in the aisle must have used the left hand.”
McKnight’s eyes sought mine and he winked at me solemnly as I unostentatiously transferred the hat I was carrying to my right hand. Long training has largely counterbalanced heredity in my case, but I still pitch ball, play tennis and carve with my left hand. But Hotchkiss was too busy with his theories to notice me.
We were only just in time for our train back to Baltimore, but McKnight took advantage of a second’s delay to shake the station agent warmly by the hand.
“I want to express my admiration for you,” he said beamingly. “Ability of your order is thrown away here. You should have been a city policeman, my friend.”
The agent looked a trifle uncertain.
“The young lady was the one who told me to keep still,” he said.