“I know, sir. That’s what I thought. And in this hot weather and all. But there’s an explanation. The deceased always had them—those windows—shut all day in the hot weather, and the blinds down. He knew a thing or two, you see. But he always used to open ’em himself at night, when he went in there to work. I suppose last night he must ’ave been in a great hurry or something, and only opened one of ’em.” He looked across at Anthony for approval of his reasoning, then continued: “But the queer thing is, sir, that that open window shows no traces of anything—no scratches, no marks, no nothing. Nor does the flower-bed under it either.” “Any finger-prints anywhere on anything?” said Anthony. “None anywhere in the room but the deceased’s—except on one thing. I’ve sent that up to the Yard—Jardine’s taken it—for the experts to photograph. I’ll have the prints sometime this afternoon I should think.” Boyd’s tone was mysterious. Anthony looked at him. “Out with it, Boyd. You’re like a boy with a surprise for daddy.” “As a matter of fact, sir,” Boyd laughed, rather shamefacedly, “it’s the _modus operandi_, so to speak.” “So you’ve found the ber-loodstained weapon. Boyd, I congratulate you. What was it? And whose are the finger-prints?” “The weapon used, sir, was a large wood-rasp, and a very nasty weapon it must have made. As for the finger-prints, I don’t know yet. And it’s my firm belief we shan’t be much wiser when we’ve got the enlargements—not even if we were to compare ’em with all the prints of all the fingers for miles round. I don’t know what it is, sir, but this case has got a nasty, puzzling sort of feel about it, so to speak.” “A wood-rasp, eh?” mused Anthony. “Not very enlightening. Doesn’t belong to the house, I suppose?” “As far as I can find out, sir, most certainly not.” Boyd’s tone was gloomy. “H’mm! Well, let us advance. We’ve absolved the aged Poole; but what about the rest of the household?” Anthony spread out his long fingers and ticked off each name as he spoke. “Miss Hoode, Mrs. Mainwaring, her maid Duboise, Sir Arthur, Elsie Syme, Mabel Smith, Maggie—no, Martha Forrest, Lily Ingram, Annie Holt, Belford, Harry Wright. Any of them do? The horticultural Mr. Diggle’s in hospital and therefore out of it, I suppose.” Boyd stared amazement. “Good Lord, sir!” he exclaimed, “you’ve got ’em off pat enough. Have you been talking to them?” “Preserve absolute calm, Boyd; I have not been talking to them. I got their dreadful names from an outsider. Anyhow, what about them?” Boyd shook his head. “Nothing, sir.” “All got confused but trustworthy alibis? That it?”