"Our first theory, Mr. Kent, was that the murder was committed by a sailor with a wooden leg, newly landed from Java."
"Quite so, quite proper," nodded Kent.
"We knew that he was a sailor," the Inspector went on, dropping again into his sing-song monotone, "by the extraordinary agility needed to climb up the thirty feet of bare brick wall to the window—a landsman could not have climbed more than twenty; the fact that he was from the East Indies we knew from the peculiar knot about his victim's neck. We knew that he had a wooden leg——"
The Inspector paused and looked troubled.
"We knew it." He paused again. "I'm afraid I can't remember that one."
"Tut, tut," said Kent gently, "you knew it, Edwards, because when he leaned against the billiard table the impress of his hand on the mahogany was deeper on one side than the other. The man was obviously top heavy. But you abandoned this first theory."
"Certainly, Mr. Kent, we always do. Our second theory was——"
But Kent had ceased to listen. He had suddenly stooped down and picked up something off the floor.
"Ha ha!" he exclaimed. "What do you make of this?" He held up a square fragment of black cloth.
"We never saw it," said Edwards.