Part 11 (2/2)

”Good gracious, so it is!” exclaimed Miss Prall. ”Well, I suppose I shall be consulted as to the funeral, at least! I seem to be of little importance here!”

”Don't talk like that, Aunt,” urged Bates. ”These inquiries are necessary. The funeral services and all that, will of course be under our control.”

”I should hope so,” the lady sniffed; ”I shall stay here until the undertaker arrives. I want some say in these matters.”

”I think, Let.i.tia,” suggested Miss Gurney, ”you'd better go to your room and tidy up a bit. You dressed very hastily.”

”What matter! Such things are unimportant in a crisis of this sort! Oh, I can't realize it! The awful circ.u.mstances almost make one forget the sadness of death! Poor Sir Herbert! He enjoyed life so much!”

Miss Prall buried her face in her handkerchief, and so was unable to see the quizzical glances given her by Detective Corson.

CHAPTER V

Who Were the Women?

The usual and necessary routine was followed out. The Medical Examiner came and did his part; the undertakers came and did theirs; and at last Bob Moore's nervous restlessness was calmed, somewhat, by a hope of getting all signs of the tragedy obliterated before the morning's stir began in the house.

”I'll wash up these blood stains, myself,” Moore volunteered,--speaking to Corson, after the body had been taken away to a mortuary establishment and the Prall family had gone up to their rooms.

”Oh, I don't know,” demurred Corson. ”It's evidence, you know----”

”For whom? Can't you get all the deductions you want, and let me clean up? We can't have the tenants coming down to a hall like this! If there's any evidence in these blood spots, make a note of it. You know yourself they can't be left here all day!”

This was reasonable talk, and Corson agreed. ”All right,” he said. ”I'll make pencil marks around where the spots are,--pencil won't wash off, you know,--and as I can't see any trace of footprints, I suppose there isn't anything further to be learned from the condition of the floor.”

”Thought you Tecs got a lot from looking at the scene of the crime,”

Moore jeered. ”You haven't deduced a thing but that the man was stabbed,--and Dr. Pagett told you that.”

Corson took the taunt seriously.

”That finding of tiny clues, such as shreds of clothing, part of a broken cuff-link, a dropped handkerchief, all those things, are just story-book stuff,--they cut no ice in real cases.”

”I'll bet Sherlock Holmes could find a lot of data just by going over the floor with a lens.”

”He could in a story book,--and do you know why? Because the clews and things, in a story, are all put there for him by the property man. Like a salted mine. But in real life, there's nothing doing of that sort.

Take a good squint at the floor, though, before you remove those stains.

You don't see anything, do you?”

Elated at being thus appealed to by a real, live detective, Moore got down on hands and knees and scrutinized the floor all about where the body of Sir Herbert had lain.

There was nothing indicative to be seen. The floor of the lobby was always kept in proper condition and beyond the slight trace of dust that naturally acc.u.mulated between the diurnal was.h.i.+ngs, the floor gave up no information.

So the gruesome red stains were washed away, and once again the onyx lobby took on its normal atmosphere.

<script>