“Have you discovered anything new?” Gwen exclaimed, unable to control the excitement caused by this last remark. “You must pardon me,” Maitland rejoined, “if I ask you and the Doctor a question before replying.” She nodded assent, and he continued: “I wish to know if you agree with me that we shall be more likely to arrive at a solution of the problem before us if we keep our own counsel than if we take the officers of the law, or, for that matter, anyone else, into our confidence. You undoubtedly noticed how carefully M. Godin kept his own counsel. Official methods, and the hasty generalisations which form a part thereof—to say nothing of the petty rivalries and the passion for notoriety—can do much to hinder our own work, and, I believe, nothing to help it. What say you?” “That we keep our work to ourselves,” Gwen quickly rejoined, and I signified that I was of the same opinion. “Then,” Maitland continued, “I may say this in answer to your question. I have ascertained something which may bear upon the case in hand. You will remember that part of the gravel for redressing the croquet ground was dumped under the east window there. The painters, I learn, finished painting that side of the house yesterday forenoon before the gravel was removed and placed upon the ground, so that any footprints they may have made in it while about their work were obliterated. As you see, there was loose gravel left under the window to the depth of about two inches. I carefully examined this gravel this morning—there were no footprints.”
I glanced at Gwen; her face had a set expression, and she was deathly pale. “There were, however,” he continued, “places where the gravel had been tamped down as if by the pressure of a rectangular board. I examined these minutely and, by careful measurement and close scrutiny of some peculiar markings suggestive of the grain of wood, satisfied myself that the depressions in the gravel were made by two, and not, as I had at first thought, by one small piece of wood. I found further that these two boards had always borne certain relative relations to each other, and that when one had been turned around the other had undergone a similar rotation. This last is, in my mind, a most important point, for, when coupled with the fact that between any two impressions of the same board the distance was sensibly constant, and was that of a short stride, there could be no reasonable doubt but these boards had been worn upon some person’s feet. They could not have been thrown down merely to be stepped upon, for, in that case, they would not have borne fixed relations to each other—probably would not have been turned end for end at all—and certainly, both would not always have happened to get turned at the same time. I procured a board of the combined area of the two supposed to have made the impressions in the gravel, and weighted it down until, as nearly as I could measure, it impacted the soil to the same extent the others had. The weight was one hundred and thirty-five pounds, which is about right for a man five feet five inches tall. The position of the depressions in the gravel indicated a stride just about right for a man of that height.
“There was one other most important discovery which I made after I had divided the impressions into two classes—according as they were produced by the right or left board—which was that when the right foot was thrown forward the stride was from three to four inches longer than when the left foot led. Directly under the window there was a deep impression in the sand. I took a plaster cast of it, and here it is,” he said, producing an excellent facsimile of a closed hand. “There can be little doubt,” he continued, “from the position occupied by the depression, of which this is a reverse copy, that it was either accidentally made by someone who, stooping before the east window to avoid obstructing its light, suddenly lost his balance and regained his equilibrium by thus thrusting out his hand, or—and this seems far more likely to me—that the hand was deliberately placed in the gravel in order to steady its possessor while he performed some peculiar operation.”
At this point I ventured to ask why he regarded the latter view as so much more tenable than the former. “There are several reasons,” he replied, “which render the view I prefer to take all but certain. First, the impression was made by the left hand. Second, it is the impression of a closed hand, with the upper joints of the fingers undermost. Did you ever know one to save himself from falling by thrusting out a closed hand? Certainly not. There is a certain amount of fear, however slight, invariably associated with losing one’s balance. This sentiment, so far as the hand is concerned, is expressed by opening it and spreading the fingers. This he would instinctively have done, if falling. Then there is the position of the impression relative to the window and some slight testimony upon the sill and glass, for the thorough investigation of which I have been obliged to await my microscope. I have worked diligently, but that is all I have been able to accomplish.”
“All!” exclaimed Gwen, regarding him with ill-concealed admiration. “It seems to me a very great deal. The thoroughness, the minuteness of it all, overwhelms me; but, tell me, have your discoveries led you to any conclusion?” “No,” he replied, “nothing definite yet; I must not allow myself to become wedded to any theory, so long as there is anything further to be learned. If I were to hazard a few idle guesses, I should say your father was murdered in some mysterious way—by a person about five feet five inches tall, weighing, say, one hundred and thirty-five pounds, and having a lame leg, or, perhaps, one limb shorter than the other,—at all events having some deformity or ailment causing a variation in the length of the strides. I should guess also that this person’s feet had some marked peculiarity, since such pains had been taken to conceal the footprints. Then the cast of the hand here encourages speculation. Fingers long, slim, and delicate, save at the nails, where, with the exception of the little finger, are to be found unmistakable signs of the habit of biting the nails,—see, here are the hang-nails,—but, strange to say, the nail of the little finger has been spared, and suffered to grow to an unusual length. I ask myself why this particular nail has been so favoured, and can only answer, ‘because it has some peculiar use.’ It is clear this is not the hand of a manual labourer; the joints are too small, the fingers too delicate, the texture of the skin, which is clearly visible, much too fine—in short, wouldn’t it pass anywhere for a woman’s hand? Say a woman who bit her nails. If it were really such there would be a pair of feminine feet also to be concealed, and boards would do it very nicely—but this is all guesswork, and must not be allowed to affect any subsequent conclusions. If you will excuse me a few minutes I will use the microscope a little on the sill of the east window before we are interrupted by our friends the officers, who will be sure to be here soon.”
While Maitland was thus engaged I did all in my power to distract Gwen’s attention, as much as possible, from her father’s body. Whenever she regarded it, the same intense and set expression overspread her countenance as that which at first had alarmed me. I was glad when Maitland returned from the window and began mixing some of the chemicals I had brought him, for Gwen invariably followed all his movements, as if her very existence depended upon her letting nothing escape her. Maitland, who had asked me for a prescription blank, now dipped it in the chemicals he had mixed and, this accomplished, put the paper in his microscope box to dry.
“I have something here,” he said, “which I desire to photograph quite as much as this room and some of its larger objects,” and he pinned a tiny, crumpled mass against the wall, and made an exposure of it in that condition. “Do you know what this is?” he said, as he carefully smoothed it out for another picture. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” I said. “It is plain enough under the microscope,” he continued, placing it upon the slide, and adjusting the focus. “Would you like to examine it, Miss Darrow?” Gwen had scarcely put her eye to the instrument before she exclaimed: “Why, it’s a piece of thin outside bark from a twig of alder.” Maitland’s face was a study... “Would you mind telling me,” he said deliberately, “how you found that out so quickly?” She hesitated a moment, and then said methodically, pointing toward the water, “I know the alder well—our boat is moored near a clump of them.” “You are a keen observer,” he replied, as he took the prepared paper from his box and spread the film of bark upon it to take a blue print of it. “There is one other object upon the sill which, unfortunately, I cannot take away with me,” he continued, “but shall have to content myself with photographing. I refer to a sinuous line made in the paint, while green, and looking as if a short piece of rope, or, more properly, rubber tubing, since there is no rope-like texture visible, had been dropped upon it, and hastily removed—but see, here are Osborne and Allen looking for all the world as if they were prepared to demonstrate a fourth dimension of space. Now we shall see the suicide theory proved—to their own satisfaction, at least. But, whatever they say, don’t forget we are to keep our own work to ourselves.”
The two officers were alone. M. Godin had apparently decided to work by himself. This did not in the least surprise me, since I could easily see that he had nothing to gain by working with these two officers.
“We’ve solved the matter,” was the first thing Osborne said after passing the time of day. “Indeed?” replied Maitland in a tone which was decidedly ambiguous; “you make it suicide, I suppose?” “That’s just what we make it,” returned the other. “We hadn’t much doubt of it last night, but there were some things, such as the motive, for example, not quite clear to us; but it is all as plain as daylight now.”
“And what says M. Godin?” asked Maitland.