“In this room?”
“Yes. And just as I got a firm grip on its hand—I can’t call it a paw—and tried to drag the beast back inside the window, the hand was severed from the body and left in my grasp.”
McLane half rose in his seat and then sank back. “You are kidding me!” he exclaimed.
Curtis left his chair and went over to his bureau. When he came back to the window he unwrapped a bloodstained handkerchief and displayed its contents.
“Are you convinced?” he asked. “Look at the window sill and tell me what you see.”
McLane bent over the sill and studied it in silence. “There is a streak of blood and a mark on the stone ledge where a sharp blade struck. It must have been driven with terrific force.”
“By whom?”
McLane leaned far out of the window and scanned the brick walls. “Some one must have been crouching on this balcony just outside your window, Dave,” he said.
“Sure—the man who hadn’t the courage to steal into my room, but had to send a poor dumb beast to do his dirty work,” declared Curtis savagely.
McLane straightened up. “I had almost forgotten,” he exclaimed. “I saw an impression of a hand on your counterpane yesterday. At first glance I thought it was a child’s soiled hand.”