"In the sense that the Honour of the Club has, literally, been dyed a more vivid crimson--that, in other words, it has been dipped in the sacrificial blood? No. My meaning, there, was metaphorical. There was no blood to dip it in."
I handed the Honour of the Club across the table to Pendarvon. As he took it, he looked at me askance.
"That is not all you are going to tell us? The rules require you to furnish full particulars."
"Those particulars, Mr. Chairman, I am now about to furnish. The bird I flushed, marked, and bagged was a hen."
"A hen?"
"A woman, Mr. Chairman. Name, Louise O'Donnel. Age, turned twenty. Date, last Sunday. Scene, Three Bridges. Cause of death, strangulation."
Pendarvon leaned towards me over the table.
"Are you responsible, then, for what the papers have christened the Three Bridges Tragedy?"
"I am."
"Did you throw the woman from the train?"