“Dropped handkerchiefs and such like?” asked Gibbs, mockingly. “No; and if there were footprints, they’re washed away now. But those things are only for story-books,—such as you’re eternally reading, Moore.” “I do read a lot of ’em, and it’s astonishing, but most always a criminal leaves some trace.” “In the stories,—yes. In real life, they’re not so obliging. But let’s look at the spot. We might get an idea,—if nothing more tangible.” The three went along the lobby till they reached the place where Sir Herbert had breathed his last. Marks had been drawn to indicate the blood spots that were so quickly washed off, and these still showed clearly. The body had been found crumpled on the floor, in the angle made by the great square base of an onyx pillar and the wall. They saw, of course, no traces of any personality, but as they looked each began to reconstruct the scene mentally. “I think they were concealed here for some time,” Corson said. “If they stood here talking, the pillar would partly shield them from view of others entering. Nor could they be easily seen by Moore, in the back of the lobby.” “Maybe,” Moore agreed hesitantly, “but if Miss Prall and Sir Herbert had come in together I bet I’d seen ’em.” “Not if you were up in the elevator,” said Corson. “No; of course not. That might have been the case.” “And then, when you took Mr Vail up, was no doubt the moment she chose to stab him and immediately pulled out the knife and ran away.” “We know,” said Moore, positively, “that whoever did it, did it while I took Mr Vail up, and that the murderer then pulled out the knife and ran away. But that’s not saying it was Miss Prall. And I’ve got to have some sort of evidence before I’ll believe it was. Her desire to be rid of Sir Herbert isn’t enough, to my mind, to indicate that she killed him. Can you tie it onto her any more definitely?” “Her ownership of the knife, and her making no effort to find it, though missing, are evidence enough for me,” said Corson doggedly. “And, how’d those little chorus chickens get it, if they’re the ones?” “I don’t think they’re the ones,” Moore declared; “but I do think it was those two chambermaids. They could get the knife from the Prall apartment easy enough, and maybe Miss Prall did question Maggie about the missing knife and maybe Maggie gave a plausible explanation for its disappearance.” “Maybe and maybe and maybe not!” observed Gibbs, cryptically. “This sort of talk gets us no-where——” “Yes it does,” Corson interrupted. “It’s shown us how Miss Prall could have done it. And when you remember that Sir Herbert declared with his dying heartbeats that women did it, and when we have no other women with half as much motive,—those little girls’ jealousies are puerile by comparison,—I think we are bound to conclude we’re on the right track.” “If so, let’s forge ahead,” and Gibbs nodded energetically. “What’s the next move?”