“But one of them must have a stain. There couldn’t have been time to wipe it dry.”
“None are stained,” returned the Doctor. “Come with me.”
He and I had nearly to drag Crofts out to the lawn, to the spot beyond the gate-house towers where the small axe had lain covered from the storm.
“But that’s a puny thing!”
“Yes,” said the Doctor, “but even a bullet may do damage, and the puny axe may have been in the hand of one of prodigious strength. A light weapon and a heavy blow; it may have broken the weapon, of course.”
“It will hardly be here, in that case,” I suggested.
We were beside the chicken-wire. There stood Miss Lebetwood, her white hands clenched against her dark dress.
Her voice was cold, toneless. “I’ve been waiting here, wondering how long—”
“No matter, Miss,” said the doctor, “we’re here—that’s what matters.”
I lit a match which managed to keep alive in the stir of air. The canvas, held down by heavy stones, was in place. Crofts yanked the sheet away. We gasped.