When the two approached the French windows a moment later, the noise was still in full swing, though now spasmodic and conveying a somewhat dispirited effect; but they had hardly stamped over the threshold and exchanged a few gruff “z’s” and “x’s” before it ceased abruptly. “Eel ehcoot, ler jongdarm, sxs zz,” grunted the shorter of the two Jugo-Chzechovinians. “Oo eh ler zbodyx? Ahxha! Venneh soor, Zorx! Soor ler mattoh-x, zzz.” With stealthy movements and sibilant noises they spread a mat beside George and rolled him on to it. Refusing to wait in the wings this time, Cynthia and Dora appeared in the doorway to watch the performance, the latter going so far as to lend a helping hand, tapping about on the parquet flooring with her high heels; for, as she very reasonably pointed out to her fellow-conspirators as they bent over the corpse together: “Il faut absolument xsx avoir une vamp, zzz?” The inert George was then conveyed on his rug across the floor, over the threshold into the garden (involving a four-inch drop on the small of his back) and across the lawn to the river at the bottom. There Mr. Doyle caused all four of them to jump energetically about, so as to leave the choicest collection of footprints that any sleuth could desire, after which they returned to the house. From the cupboard in the library all this time had come a silence even more eloquent than the former protestations. “Anything else to be done?” asked Mr. Doyle, thoughtfully, when they had returned again to the hall. He seemed to have taken charge of affairs for the moment and Dora, observing the gleam in his eye, had no difficulty in understanding why. She gave her fiancé the credit of being an artist; he was, she knew, quite capable of arranging the whole thing purely for art’s sake. But the vision of that elusive furniture was a very powerful aid to art. She was very ready to encourage him. “Clues!” she said, wrinkling her forehead again. “We must have some more clues. But what?” “It’s a pity we’ve got to do things in such a hurry,” remarked Guy. “This sort of affair wants properly thinking out. I don’t see how we’re going to arrange a real set of interdependent clues, on the spur of the moment.” “Well, I can think of one at any rate,” said Mr. Doyle thirstily. “Blood! When all’s said and done, there’s nothing like blood. The river was all right, but blood is well known to be thicker. Some blood, please, somebody!” “No, I’m hanged if I will,” said George with decision, catching the predatory gleam in his eye. “I’ve done my share.” “But only in red ink, George,” Mr. Doyle pointed out wistfully. But George, muttering about “this infernal beard,” was already on his way upstairs and to the bathroom. “I suppose you haven’t got a spot of blood to spare, have you?” Mr. Doyle inquired politely of his host. “Pat, I won’t have you after my husband’s blood,” Cynthia interposed.