“I’ve already told you that; last March.
He had admired it.”
“Did he ask for it?”
“Hardly that.
He said if I ever wanted to get rid of it, he would take it.”
“He dropped in to see you rather often?”
“Not so often.
Once a month or so.”
“And where did you sit, when he called?”
“In my library, usually.”
On my way out I saw Mr. Henderson, of Waite and Henderson, and bowed to him.
It seemed to me that he looked worried and upset, but I laid this to the death of Florence and its continuing mystery, and thought no more of it.
That was on Saturday, May the fourteenth, and that night Inspector Harrison came in.
He looked tired and rather untidy, and when he took off his overcoat a flashlight fell to the floor.
For some reason he brought it into the library with him, and sat snapping it on and off as he talked.
Perhaps he was out of his customary ammunition.
He began rather apologetically.
“I’ve got the habit of dropping in here,” he said.
“I suppose it’s because I like to talk and you’re willing to listen.”
“I daresay,” I observed, “although I had hoped it was due to my personal charm.”
That embarrassed him.
He smiled rather dubiously, gave me a quick glance, and then proceeded quite calmly to focus the flashlight on my feet.
“You see,” he said.
“I’ve been studying those molds I took.
It’s my belief that they were made with a woman’s shoe.
Not that sort; a big woman’s shoe. Flat heeled and sensible, and considerably worn.
A woman who walked on the outsides of her feet; maybe bandy legged.”
“I assure you, Inspector—”
“No need of it,” he said politely.
“But before I go I’d like to look over the closets here.
Somebody appears to have pretty free access to this house, and it’s just possible we’ll locate that pair of shoes.”
He made no immediate move, however. He surveyed himself rather ruefully.
“I’ve been tramping about,” he explained.
“It’s a curious thing, but things can be seen at night that can’t be seen in daytime.
Take blood on furniture.
In the daylight it looks like varnish, but in a good electric light it often shows up.
Then take marks in the ground.
Look at what your car headlights do!
I’ve slowed down for a rut no deeper than my finger.”
“And now you have found something?”
“Well, I have,” he said.
“It’s bad news for you, Miss Bell.
It’s like this; I went to the museum and looked at one of those sword sticks they have there.
They look like other sticks, but there’s one difference.
The ferrule is open at the bottom.
When you put it down on the ground it makes a circle, not a hole.
I took it out and tried it.
You get the idea, don’t you?
A ring is what it makes.
In the one in the museum the blade is loose, so it makes a ring with a dot in the center.