The stuff seemed curiously sticky, very much like paint. He took it across to the window, and there examined it minutely in the light, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. Next moment a cry of horror escaped him. "Great Heavens!" he gasped. "Why—it’s blood!" Apparently there had been a pool of blood there, but it had nearly all dried up, save that portion which had not yet become completely hardened. What could it mean? He returned to the spot which had been immediately beneath where he had lain upon the bed. Had some previous occupant of that barred room been foully done to death while sleeping? It certainly seemed that such was the explanation. "Who brought me here, I wonder?" he said aloud to himself, as the ghastly suggestion crept over him. "What is Marigold thinking of my disappearance? What can they think of it at the office?" Across the narrow room he paced in frantic anger at having been so entrapped without the slightest motive. The dead silence of the place oppressed him. Without knowledge of where he was, either in London or in the country, he set his teeth and regretted the moment when he went to the assistance of the two women. Yet, surely, they could have nothing to do with his detention there? The absence of motive held him completely perplexed. In the fast-fading light he made a complete and minute inspection of that chamber wherein he had made the gruesome discovery. If someone had really been done to death in that place recently, then there might be other traces of the tragedy. Further, how was he to know that he, in turn, would not fall a victim! Hastily, because the light was going, he turned out a cupboard, but found nothing save a quantity of newspapers. Some rubbish in the rusty fireplace he examined, but his search there was also fruitless. Then he turned his attention to a long, narrow double-doored cupboard let into the wall close to the bed. One door was bolted from within, and the other locked. To force it open was only the work of a few moments. Within he found a quantity of feminine apparel of good quality, a skirt, shoes, and other things. One object which he took up caused him to ejaculate another cry of horror, and to hold his breath. He carried it across to the broken window, and there bent to see if what he suspected was the actual truth. Yes! He satisfied himself that it was. What he held in his hand was a woman’s cream _crêpe-de-chine_ blouse, prettily trimmed with lace, but the neck, chest, and all over the left sleeve were stained with blood! "Then the victim was a woman!" he gasped aloud.