“Yes.”
“Then we can dismiss the theory of accidental death,” argued Ferguson, “and there remain homicide or suicide. Come, doctor, could Austin have pulled out the shears’ blade after stabbing himself?”
McLane shook his head dubiously. “Death resulted almost instantaneously,” he answered.
Richards, who had thrust his hands into his trousers’ pockets, clenched them until the nails dug into the flesh, while Detective Ferguson, with a covert smile, rolled up the shears once again in the piece of oilskin and replaced them in his pocket.
“Suicide is then out of the question,” he commented gravely. “It leaves us face to face with homicide. What motive inspired Austin Hale’s murder, gentlemen?”
A low moan escaped Mrs. Hale. “There could be no motive,” she stammered. “Austin had no enemies, and this was his home; he was surrounded only with relatives——”
“And he was murdered,” Ferguson’s lips parted in a dangerous smile, as he swung on John Hale. “Come, sir, have you no facts to disclose, no aid to offer in tracking down your son’s murder?”
John Hale regarded him for a moment in grim silence.
“I give you a free hand to follow every clew,” he affirmed, “and offer a reward of five thousand dollars for the apprehension and conviction of his murderer.”
Detective Ferguson buttoned his coat and picked up his hat which he had brought with him into the drawing-room; then he turned to McLane.