“Oh, I am certain of all that.”
“And that the needle that is missing from this cork handle which you have just placed in my hand is now imbedded in the back of his neck?”
“I know that the needle was in the cork at the last moment before I left my room to go to the banquet. I know that the needle is not there now. I know that there is—or was—the mark of a wound such as that needle would have made at the back of his neck. I know that there was a spot—a bead—of blood there, which I wiped away with a handkerchief, and that in wiping the spot I was certain that I could detect, by a pressure of my finger, the presence of the end of the needle under the skin.”
“And yet you also know that the casket in which the needle was kept by you was locked and that the only key that exists within your knowledge which will open it was in your pocket—by the way, were your keys in your trousers or in your waistcoat?”
“In my trousers.”
“And you did not remove them when you threw yourself on the couch to sleep?”
“No.”
“But you admit that you were very full of wine.”
“Just about as full as I could be and walk.”
“So that when you dropped asleep in that condition any person might have gone through your pockets and removed everything you possessed without disturbing you, don’t you think?”