«I don't, fathead,» said Lord Peter, with the easy politeness of the real aristocracy, «that's why I've tried to get hold of the jeweler who originally sold the chain. See?» He pointed to the paragraph. «It's not an old chain — hardly worn at all. Oh, thanks, Bunter. Now, see here, Parker, these are the finger-marks you noticed yesterday on the window-sash and on the far edge of the bath. I'd overlooked them; I give you full credit for the discovery, I crawl, I grovel, my name is Watson, and you need not say what you were just going to say, because I admit it all. Now we shall — Hullo, hullo, hullo!»
The three men stared at the photographs.
«The criminal,» said Lord Peter, bitterly, «climbed over the roofs in the wet and not unnaturally got soot on his fingers. He arranged the body in the bath, and wiped away all traces of himself except two, which he obligingly left to show us how to do our job. We learn from a smudge on the floor that he wore india rubber boots, and from this admirable set of fingerprints on the edge of the bath that he had the usual number of fingers and wore rubber gloves. That's the kind of man he is. Take the fool away, gentlemen.»
He put the prints aside, and returned to an examination of the shreds of material in his hand. Suddenly he whistled softly.
«Do you make anything of these, Parker?»
«They seemed to me to be ravellings of some coarse cotton stuff — a sheet, perhaps, or an improvised rope.»
«Yes,» said Lord Peter — «yes. It may be a mistake — it may be our mistake. I wonder. Tell me, d'you think these tiny threads are long enough and strong enough to hang a man?»
He was silent, his long eyes narrowing into slits behind the smoke of his pipe.
«What do you suggest doing this morning?» asked Parker.
«Well,» said Lord Peter, «it seems to me it's about time I took a hand in your job. Let's go round to Park Lane and see what larks Sir Reuben Levy was up to in bed last night.»