“It is strange,” said the clown intently examining the ragged piece of rope. “Here is a drop of blood—a single drop of blood; just where it was broken off near the ceiling. How came it here?”
“It fell from the body,” whispered Clifdon.
“The body did not bleed, except at the mouth, where the blood was mixed with froth, and could not leave so dark a stain.”
“You are swelling a trifle into importance,” said Clifdon, impatiently. “The spot may be accounted for in a thousand ways; it may not even be blood.”
His companion did not reply, but threw aside the rope as if convinced. Suddenly he stooped and raised from the ground some glittering substance that had apparently fallen from it.
“What is it?” asked Clifdon.
“Nothing; a silver fringe, or a spangle, I believe,” said the other, calmly. Then, with a rapid glance, “You have cut your finger, gallant Captain Ned.”
“A trifle,” said Clifdon, hastily, but coloring as he spoke. “I cut it with some of White Fleeta’s showy trappings, and it bleeds afresh.” And turning upon his heel, he strode from the saloon.
——