But the astute Bill Dunn saw more than this. He recognized the air of efficiency, the subtle hint of power, the whole effect of generalship which fairly emanated from this quiet-mannered man. There was no bustle about Pennington Wise, no self-assertion, but to those blessed with perceptions he gave an instant impression of sure reasoning and inerrant judgment. He glanced quickly at Zizi, caught the almost imperceptible motion of her own little bird claw of a hand, and then, without seeming to notice her at all, he spoke genially to the two men, and nodded sympathetically at the cook. And they all liked him. If asked why, they could not have told, but his manner and attitude were so friendly, his mien so inoffensive and his cordial acceptance of each of them was so pleasant that he was instantly in their good graces. Even the sheriff, who had been fully prepared to dislike and distrust this city wizard, capitulated gladly, and was ready to subscribe to all his theories, deductions and decisions. “Too bad,” Wise said, with real feeling, as he knelt by Martha’s side. And few could have seen, unmoved, the bright young face of the strong healthy girl who had been so brutally done to death. Gently, he lifted her chin and examined the black bruises on her throat. “Finger-prints?” suggested Potter, eager to show the city man his familiarity with modern methods. “Hardly,” Wise said. “I doubt much could be learned that way,—the bruise is so deep. Perhaps there may be prints of the ruffian’s hands on her clothing. You might try it out, Mr Potter.” Then, while the two men were speaking to each other about the matter, Wise unobtrusively looked at the inside of the girl’s hands. On the left palm he saw the long smear of dark green, and after quick but careful scrutiny, he bent lower and smelled of it. Then he closed the dead hand and rose to his feet. “You may take away the body, Sheriff,” he said, “so far as I am concerned. She has people?” “Yes, sir. Parents and sisters. Oh, it’s a sorry thing for them.” “It is so,” and then Wise let his perceiving eyes roam over the kitchen. “Have you searched the floor well for anything that may have been dropped?” he asked. “Oh, yes,” the sheriff answered. “That’s all been done, Mr Wise. We’re plain country folks here, but we know a thing or two.” “I’m sure of that,” Wise assented. “Did you look under the dresser and beneath that corner cupboard?” “Well, no; we didn’t think it necessary to go so far as that.” “Probably not; most likely not. Yet, I wish, Hannah, you’d get a broom and just run it under there.” “I’ll do it,” volunteered Kelly, who had come to the kitchen. He brought a broom, and brushing under the two dressers, brought out some dust, some threads and shreds and two yellow beads. “Martha’s?” asked Wise, quietly, picking up the beads. “No!” exclaimed Hannah, staring at them. “Miss Betty’s!” “Miss Varian’s!” Wise was himself surprised.