“No.” Curtis pocketed the key of the despatch box. “I know you won’t approve, Leonard, but”—and his tone was grim—“I decline to further involve Anne Meredith in the mystery of her uncle’s murder.”
“I am with you there,” declared McLane. “I wish, however, that you had spoken to me sooner about the handkerchief.”
“This is the first time I have seen you since we met in Meredith’s bedroom yesterday,” Curtis pointed out. “But I must confess, Leonard, that the handkerchief did slip my mind. I had left it in the pocket of this suit of pajamas, and only recollected the handkerchief when I found the pajamas lying on this bed about fifteen minutes before you came in.”
“Lazy habits you have,” commented McLane, speaking more lightly. “Leaving your pajamas around your room at this time in the morning.”
“I did not leave them there,” protested Curtis. “I don’t know who could have laid them on the bed. It’s made up, is it not?”
McLane turned about and gazed at the bed as Curtis crossed the room to his bureau, despatch box in hand.
“The bed is made up,” McLane stated slowly. Something caught his eyes and he stepped close to the bedstead and bent forward. “By Jove!” he exclaimed. “There is an impression of a hand on the counterpane—”
“Monsieur le docteur!” McLane straightened up swiftly and encountered Susanne’s frightened gaze. The French maid was standing holding the hall door ajar. “Mademoiselle Anne is calling for you—come quickly!”
CHAPTER XII
MURDER