"Well, sir, your locus standi here is a matter for the inspector. My assistant was not authorized to call in outsiders. You needn't wait, Hart."
With this he proceeded to his inspection, while Thorndyke withdrew the pocket-thermometer that he had slipped under the body, and took the reading.
The inspector, however, was not disposed to exercise the prerogative at which the surgeon had hinted; for an expert has his uses.
"How long should you say she'd been dead, sir?" he asked affably.
"About ten hours," replied Thorndyke.
The inspector and the detective simultaneously looked at their watches. "That fixes it at two o'clock this morning," said the former. "What's that, sir?"
The surgeon was pointing to the wisp of hair in the dead girl's hand.
"My word!" exclaimed the inspector. "A woman, eh? She must be a tough customer. This looks like a soft job for you, sergeant."
"Yes," said the detective. "That accounts for that box with the hassock on it at the head of the bed. She had to stand on them to reach over. But she couldn't have been very tall."
"She must have been mighty strong, though," said the inspector; "why, she has nearly cut the poor wench's head off." He moved round to the head of the bed, and, stooping over, peered down at the gaping wound. Suddenly he began to draw his hand over the pillow, and then rub his fingers together. "Why," he exclaimed, "there's sand on the pillow—silver sand! Now, how can that have come there?"