The wide circular staircase, with its railing of solid mahogany, was colonial in design. It started from the square hall beneath and, the treads being of unusual width, required a larger “well” than was customary. The banisters did not stop at the stairhead, but circled the “well,” thus protecting the bedroom floor, and allowing a general view of the entrance hall and the front door.
Commencing from the base of the staircase in the entrance hall were boxes of hothouse plants which ran almost to the library door. John Meredith had liked the green foliage against the white wainscoting and, the previous winter, had the boxes put there in place of the cushioned benches which had occupied the space formerly.
“That’s a good theory of yours, Miss Meredith,” admitted Mitchell. “If the knife did drop between one of these banister posts, it must have lighted in that flowerbox. Let’s see.” He whirled around and hurried down the staircase, McLane hotfoot after him.
Anne started forward, then stopped. The next instant a small hand was slipped into Curtis’ as he turned to follow the others.
“Come this way,” she said softly. A pretty color dyed her white cheeks as she saw his face light up. His expression altered quickly to one of concern as his grasp tightened over her icy fingers.
“Are you having a chill?” he asked, halting abruptly.
“Oh, no. It is nerves.” Her smile was a bit piteous. “I will be all right. Please don’t worry. I wonder—I—” She checked her incoherent ejaculations as they went down the staircase and stopped by McLane’s side.
Regardless of the danger of injuring the costly ferns and other plants which filled the boxes, Mitchell and McLane ran their hands among them, feeling with feverish haste among the leaves and the moss which formed a dense covering. Rapidly the two men worked their way down the boxes. A short, excited cry from Inspector Mitchell, who had made more speed than either McLane or Curtis, brought the others to his side. Withdrawing his hand from a box completely filled with ferns, he held up a small, discolored knife.
“Found!” he shouted. “Don’t touch it, doctor.” He laid the knife, which he held gingerly between two fingers, in a clean handkerchief, and extended it so that McLane could get a good look at it. “Those are bloodstains.”
“Probably.” McLane bent closer. “A chemical test will be necessary though, Mitchell, to distinguish bloodstains, rust, and fingerprints.”