to the corner of the roof, made a further examination of the vines, came back to the window and again tried to open it, then, with a low whistle, he pointed to a mark upon the white window sill which had at first escaped both his and my attention. It was the faint print of a hand—a bloody hand—small and delicate in structure, yet, mysterious as seemed to be all the clues in this weird case, it pointed, not outward from the room, as though made by someone leaving it, but inward, as by a person standing on the roof and resting his or her hand upon the window sill while attempting to open the window.
"What do you make of that, Sir?" inquired the detective.
"It looks as though it had been made by someone entering instead of leaving the room," I replied. "It could not have been made by anyone leaving the room. No one would get out of a window that way."
"Except a woman," said McQuade dryly. "A man would swing his legs over the sill and drop to the roof. It's barely three feet. But a woman would sit upon the sill, turn on her stomach, rest her hands on the sill with her fingers pointing toward the room, and slide gently down until her feet touched the roof beneath." He smiled with a quiet look of triumph.
"The whole thing is impossible," I retorted, with some heat. "There's no sense in talking about how anyone may or may not have got out of the room, when the bolted window proves that no one got either in or out at all."
"Perhaps you think that poor devil in there killed himself," said the detective, grimly. "Somebody must have got in. There is only one explanation possible. The window was bolted after the murder."
"By the murdered man, I suppose," I retorted ironically, nettled by his previous remark.
"Not necessarily," he replied coldly, "but possibly by someone who desired to shield the murderer." He looked at me squarely, but I was able to meet his gaze without any misgivings. "I was the first person who entered the room," I said, earnestly, "and I am prepared to make oath that the window was bolted when I entered."
"Was the room dark?" he inquired.
"It was," I answered, not perceiving the drift of his remarks. "One of the servants brought a candle."
"Did you examine the windows at once?"
"No."
"What did you do?"
"I knelt down and examined the body."
"What was Major Temple doing?"
"I—I did not notice. I think he began to examine the things in Mr. Ashton's portmanteau."
"Then, Mr. Morgan, if, occupied as you were in the most natural duty of determining whether or not you could render any aid to Mr. Ashton, you did not notice Major Temple's movements, I fail to see how you are in a position to swear to anything regarding the condition of the window at the time you entered the room."
"Your suggestion is impossible, Sergeant McQuade. Had Major Temple bolted the window, I should certainly have noticed it. I realize fully the train of reasoning you are following and I am convinced that you are wrong."
The Sergeant smiled slightly. "I do not follow any one train of reasoning," he retorted, "nor do I intend to neglect any one. I want the truth, and I intend to have it." He left the roof hurriedly, and, entering the house we descended to the library, where Major Temple sat awaiting the conclusion of our investigations.
"Well, Mr. Morgan," he inquired excitedly as we came in, "what have you discovered?"
I nodded toward the Sergeant. "Mr. McQuade can perhaps tell you," I replied.
"I can tell you more, Major Temple," said the detective, gravely, "if you will first let me have a few words with Miss Temple."
"With my daughter?" exclaimed the Major, evidently much surprised.
"Yes," answered the detective, with gravity.
"I'll go and get her," said the Major, rising excitedly.
"If you do not mind, Major Temple, I should much prefer to have you send one of the servants for her. I have a particular reason for desiring you to remain here."
I thought at first that Major Temple was going to resent this, but, although he flushed hotly, he evidently thought better of it, for he strode to a call bell and pressed it, then, facing the detective, exclaimed:
"I think you would do better to question Li Min."
"I do not intend to omit doing that, as well," replied McQuade, imperturbably.
We remained in uneasy silence until the maid, who had answered the bell, returned with Miss Temple, who, dismissing her at the door, faced us with a look upon her face of unfeigned surprise. She appeared pale and greatly agitated. I felt that she had not slept, and the dark circles under her eyes confirmed my belief. She looked about, saw our grave faces, then turned to her father. "You sent for me, Father?" she inquired, nervously.
"Sergeant McQuade here"—he indicated the detective whom Miss Temple recognized by a slight inclination of her head—"wishes to ask you a few questions."
"Me?" Her voice had in it a note of alarm which was not lost upon the man from Scotland Yard, who regarded her with closest scrutiny.
"I'll not be long, Miss. I think you may be able to clear up a few points that at present I cannot quite understand."
"I'm afraid I cannot help you much," she said, gravely.
"Possibly more than you think, Miss. In the first place I understand that your father had promised your hand in marriage to Mr. Ashton."
Miss Temple favored me with a quick and bitter glance of reproach. I knew that she felt that this information had come from me.
"Yes," she replied, "that is true."
"Did you desire to marry him?"
The girl looked at her father in evident uncertainty.
"I—I—Why should I answer such a question?" She turned to the detective with scornful eyes. "It is purely my own affair, and of no consequence—now."
"That is true, Miss," replied the Sergeant, with deeper gravity. "Still, I do not see that the truth can do anyone any harm."
Miss Temple flushed and hesitated a moment, then turned upon her questioner with a look of anger. "I did not wish to marry Mr. Ashton," she cried. "I would rather have died, than have married him."
McQuade had made her lose her temper, for which I inwardly hated him. His next question left her cold with fear.
"When did you last see Mr. Ashton alive?" he demanded.
The girl hesitated, turned suddenly pale, then threw back her head with a look of proud determination. "I refuse to answer that question," she said defiantly.
Her father had been regarding her with amazed surprise. "Muriel," he said, in a trembling voice—"what do you mean? You left Mr. Ashton and myself in the dining-room at a little after nine." She made no reply.
Sergeant McQuade slowly took from his pocket the handkerchief he had found in Mr. Ashton's room, and, handing it to her, said simply: "Is this yours, Miss?"
Miss
