“The gate-bars are rounded, if you look at them. Now at one point this mark—see it?—shows a sharp line on the flesh. It's only at one place, I admit; the rest of the marking is more like something produced by general pressure. But still, you can't mistake that bit there.” Armadale re-examined the mark with more care before replying. “I see what you mean,” he admitted. “Then go and try your own arm against the gate-bars and I think you'll admit it won't work.” The inspector moved off to the gate, slipped his sleeve up, and pressed his forearm hard against the most convenient bar. While he was thus engaged, Wendover stooped down to examine the markings for himself. “What made you so ready with gate-bars, Clinton?” he inquired. “I never noticed what sort of a gate it was when I came in.” “Obvious enough. Here's a man been falling. Marks on his wrists. We learned that from the doctor. Naturally when I heard it, I began to wonder if he hadn't fallen against something; and as soon as we got out of the car, I kept my eye open for anything that Hay could have bruised himself on. The gate-bars seemed a likely thing, so I noted them in passing. One keeps one's eyes open, squire. But as soon as I saw this”—he indicated the edge on the marking where the indentation in the flesh was almost straight—“I gave the gate-bars the go-by. They couldn't have done it.” He glanced up. “Satisfied, inspector?” Armadale removed his arm from the bar, examined the mark left on it by the pressure, and nodded gloomily. “This didn't do it. It leaves a mark deep in the middle and fading out on each side.” He came back to the body and scanned the mark once more. “This thing on the wrist hasn't got any middle. It's fairly even, except for that sharp section.” A thought seemed to strike him and he pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket, adjusted the focus, and made a minute inspection of the dead man's wrist. “I thought it might have been a rope,” he explained as he put away his lens with a disappointed air. “But there's no regular pattern there such as a rope leaves. What do you think of it, Sir Clinton?” “Got a piece of chalk in your pocket, inspector?” the chief constable inquired. Armadale's face showed some astonishment, which he endeavoured to conceal as well as he could. “No, Sir Clinton, I haven't.” “Are you thinking of bringing a photographer up here to take a souvenir picture?” The inspector considered for a moment or two. “No,” he said at last. “I don't see much use in that. The body's lying quite naturally, isn't it?” “It looks like it; but one never knows.” Sir Clinton's fingers went mechanically to his waistcoat pocket. “No chalk, you said, inspector?” “No, I haven't any.” “Ah, and yet some people tell you that playing pool is a waste of time; and that the habit of chalking your cue and then pocketing the chalk is reprehensible. We now confound them.”