“And under a rug,” Richards broke his long silence. “I distinctly recall seeing you pick them up, Ferguson, and remember the position they were in when you found them.”
“They were not under a rug,” retorted Ferguson. “The edge of the rug was turned back and covered them. Don’t touch the steel, sir,”—as Richards stepped to his side and studied the shears—“I’ve had impressions made for possible finger marks. You haven’t answered my question, doctor; was it suicide?”
“Possibly.”
“But not probably?” quickly.
“Have a care, Ferguson.” Richards spoke with sternness. “Don’t impute a meaning to Dr. McLane’s words; let him put his own construction on them.” Abruptly he turned to the surgeon. “Could the wound have been accidentally inflicted?”
McLane stared at him. “I don’t quite catch your meaning?”
“Could Austin have tripped or stumbled and fallen on the shears?”
“He could have tripped or stumbled, certainly; but if he had fallen on the shears both blades would have penetrated his chest—” McLane pointed to them. “Only one blade is bloodstained.”
“Quite sure they are bloodstains and not rust?” As he put the question, Richards again scrutinized the shears.
Ferguson smiled skeptically. “The stains have already been subjected to chemical tests,” he said. “It is human blood. Another thing, Major, if Austin Hale fell on these shears and, improbable as it may seem, was stabbed by only one blade, that blade would have remained in the wound, would it not, doctor?”