That a most violent and desperate struggle had gone forward was abundantly evident from the state of the sitting-room, which, as Farandol was careful to point out, was exactly as the police had discovered it. The black carpet was rucked up, and athwart it, in a mess of crushed petals and broken glass, the remains of a vase of daffodils was scattered. A string of crystal beads which the dead girl had been wearing had broken, and the beads, together with a number of hairpins, strewed the floor. The telltale clock, of which Bannington had spoken, had been retrieved and now stood upon the table beside the typewriter—a small French travelling-clock in a leather case. The glass was broken. They noticed that, as Bannington had said, the hands pointed at sixteen minutes past eight. Farandol tapped the clock. “This is what is going to hang Master Hollingway,” he remarked. “Humph,” commented Desmond. “That won’t bring us what we’re looking for, Inspector. I suppose you know what I mean?” Farandol nodded impressively. “Aye. But he’s got rid of it by now, mark my words. He’s one of your deep ones is Master Hollingway. He thought he’d draw a red herring across the scent. Look at this room and the bedroom beyond! He’s even upset the flour-bins in the kitchen!” The rooms were, indeed, in a state of remarkable confusion. In the sitting-room the sloping top of a little mahogany escritoire had been burst open and every drawer pulled out. The doors of the oaken buffet stood wide, and its contents, crockery and table linen, were in part spilled out on the carpet. In the bedroom a high-boy had been rifled and garments of all kinds flung about the room. The very bed had been pulled out from the wall, the bedclothes rolled up in a ball and the mattress dragged on one side. “And all the time,” Farandol resumed, “this precious document was lying there beside the typewriter! All this”—he waved a contemptuous hand at the disordered room—“play-acting is meant to bolster up his story about the footstep on the back stair . . .” “He’s made a statement, then?” queried Desmond. “I suppose he denies everything?” “He’s the innocent babe all right, same as they all are at the first go-off,” observed Farandol, fingering his waxed moustache. “Briefly, his story is that he met Miss Bardale in Soho for dinner at a quarter to seven. They had arranged to dine early because of this work that the lady had to do. Hollingway brought her back shortly after eight, and, he says, escorted her upstairs as far as the door of her flat because she was feeling nervous. On the previous evening—according to what this Hollingway says she told him—she had heard a heavy step outside her kitchen on the back stairs . . .” “Half a minute,” Desmond interrupted; “is there a back entrance? I didn’t notice it . . .”