It was a comfortable room, in contrast with the rest of the house; the furniture was good, and rows of books in shelves gave it a homely look.
“You found no trace of anyone when you entered?” asked Fletcher.
“There’s no doubt about that, sir,” was the reply. “When old Giles and I came in there was no sign of the murderer, and the whole place has been searched. There are no secret passages or trapdoors, such as one reads of in books.”
“Any finger prints?”
“No, sir, or foot marks either. Sergeant Andrews is pretty smart at that sort of thing; he had the dagger examined.”
“Someone who knew what he was about evidently,” said Fletcher.
The other looked at him queerly, without a word.
“Was anything else found which could throw a light on the subject?”
“No, sir, we have all the exhibits here; after the inquest I took charge of them.”
He went to a side table and removed a cloth. Neatly laid out were various objects. There was a case containing a few pound notes, some letters, a cigarette case, and silver match box, and a passport. There was also a well-worn, leather object which caught the detective’s eye. It was round, and looked as though it had been made to hold a golf ball.