Were they, we wondered, the spoils of the dead? What had been the fate of Eric Domville? Had he been entrapped there, despoiled, as others had been, and then allowed to descend those fatal stairs to his doom?
That was Pickering’s opinion, just as it was mine.
I longed to be allowed time to inspect the few letters beneath which the emerald necklace had been concealed, but Pickering urged me on, saying that we had yet much to do before morning.
So we entered the other rooms leading from the landing, but all were disappointing—all save one.
The door was opposite that wherein Eric had faced his enemies, and when we opened it we saw that it was a dirty faded place which had once been a bedroom, but there was now neither bedstead nor bedding. Upon the floor was an old drab threadbare carpet, in the centre of which was a large dark stain.
“Look!” I cried, pointing to it and bending to examine it more closely.
“Yes, I see,” remarked the inspector, directing his lamp full upon it. “That’s blood, sir—blood without the least doubt!”
“Blood!” I gasped. “Then Domville was probably invited in here and struck down by those fiends—the brutes!”
Edwards went on his knees, and by the aid of his lamp examined the stain more carefully, touching it with his fingers.
“It’s hardly quite dry, even now,” he remarked. “It’s soaked right in—through the boards, probably.”