“One thing puzzles me besides that point about the box,” she said at last as much to herself as to him. “If it had been thrown as apparently it was and came open enough to let any cigarettes fall out, why weren’t they all over the place instead of all more or less together?” “They were,” he replied: “there were some on the floor, but most of them were on the stairs, scattered about. Birts let me move them, after he had counted them, so as to clear a way upstairs.” “Scattered about on the stairs,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Where?” “Oh, all over the place,” he replied vaguely. “Yes, but where exactly? On which stairs? You must know, Philip.” “I don’t see that it matters,” he answered. “Nor do I, but I want to know.” “Well, all over the stairs, most of them four or five steps up, some in the centre and some on the right, as you go up; that’s why they were so in the way. But really I can’t see that it’s of the least importance.” He spoke with a touch of impatience. “No, probably it isn’t. Well, you’re tired of being asked questions; I can see that, and I don’t wonder. I’ll leave you in peace now. Don’t worry about anything I’ve said, Philip. It’s troubling me so, and I’m always wrong.” As she turned out of the study and passed the back staircase she remembered going up it the evening before and finding Humblethorne in John’s room. She stopped. After all, she reflected, she did not know it was John who entered by the drawing-room window; she only suspected it because of Celia. Now that her thoughts about the one were in such confusion, she might be wrong about the other. She believed she was right, but she could turn belief into certainty. She slipped upstairs, entered John’s room, took a boot belonging to a left foot, since that, she remembered, was the clear impression, and went quietly downstairs and out of doors. No one was about; she went straight to the first drawing-room window, stooped down and, as lightly as possible so as not to break away the edges, placed the boot over the impression. With a heavy heart she saw that it confirmed her fears; she could doubt no longer that John had been there on the evening of the tragedy, had waited to be let in, an obviously arranged meeting, and had been let out secretly—it could not be by Philip after what he had said; if it was by Celia, then she had indeed little knowledge of her friend. It was a sorely puzzled investigator who went slowly, wearily back into the house and replaced the boot which she had prayed would give her thoughts the lie. CHAPTER X The Little Dancing Girl