“But we can’t see the blood,” exclaimed McLane. “The carpet is red.”
“So!” Curtis paused as Penfield bent down and felt the spot indicated by the blind surgeon.
“You are right,” he exclaimed. “The carpet has been saturated with blood. What was Meredith doing in this corner of the room? There are no stains on the mahogany wainscoting,” he added, as Curtis turned to his left and ran his hands over the wall, “nor on the paper.”
“It is quite possible that Meredith lost his sense of direction,” suggested Curtis, rising. “He was probably frightfully weak from loss of blood. It is remarkable that he got as far as he did with such a wound. Is the bed to my left?”
“Yes, this way.” Penfield, as interested as McLane, followed Curtis back to the four-poster. “Inspector Mitchell followed my instructions, and nothing has been touched in this bedroom.”
“You are quite certain that no one has entered since your arrival?” asked Curtis.
“Positive. Mitchell stationed a detective outside the door and another on the balcony on which these windows open,” with a jerk of his hand in their direction. “Well, what the—”
The coroner’s voice failed him as Curtis, who had approached the bed from its other side, dexterously avoiding, as he did so, the overturned chair, lifted the tossed-back sheet, blanket and counterpane and disclosed a parrot. The bird, its brilliant plumage sadly tumbled, lay inert upon its side, its eyes closed.
“Good Lord! Ruffles!” exclaimed McLane. “Is he dead?”
Curtis picked up the parrot and examined it. “There’s a heartbeat; pretty feeble, but the bird’s alive.” Suddenly he raised the bird and sniffed at its beak, then bent over and put his head down where the parrot had lain.