There could not be the slightest doubt as to the mystery man’s identity as Thelma’s husband.
“Look here!” said Seton, suddenly, as he held up a towel he had taken from the rail. It was stained with blood. The hand basin was half full of water deeply tinged with blood.
“Evidently he had cut himself badly,” was Seton’s comment.
“Perhaps,” I said, “but is this his own blood or someone else’s?”
“Surely, sir, you don’t suspect he has been guilty of a crime?” gasped Seton.
I pointed to the charred fragments of the coat. “It might be so,” I rejoined.
A few moments later, however, on making a closer search of the room we found in the waste-paper basket a broken medicine bottle and on the edge of a piece of glass was a blood stain. It told its own tale—he had cut his hand upon the glass. Further, close beside the dressing-table were three or four dark spots. I touched one, and found it to be blood.
“I wonder why he destroyed his coat?” Seton remarked. “He’s gone away leaving everything behind.”
“But how did he get out?” I persisted. “The door and window were both fastened and there is no fanlight.”
We again carefully examined the lock. It was intact, it had been locked from the inside and the key was still there.