“You look it. Have a drink?”
“No,” he responded, shaking his head. “I don’t drink when I’m bothered. This case is an absolute mystery.” And striking a match he lit his foul pipe and puffed away vigorously, staring straight into the fire the while.
“Well,” I asked, after a long silence. “What’s your opinion now?”
“I’ve none,” he answered, gloomily. “What’s yours?”
“Mine is that the mystery increases hourly.”
“What did you find at the cutting-up?”
In a few words I explained the unaccountable nature of the wound, drawing for him a rough diagram on the back of an old envelope, which I tossed over to where he sat.
He looked at it for a long time without speaking, then observed:
“H’m! Just as I thought. The police theory regarding that fellow Short and the knife is all a confounded myth. Depend upon it, Boyd, old chap, that gentleman is no fool. He’s tricked Thorpe finely—and with a motive, too.”
“What motive do you suspect?” I inquired, eagerly, for this was an entirely fresh theory.