loaf," continued
Sweetwater.
The next minute he was hovering over the still more pathetic
figure of John, sitting in the chair.
"Sad! Sad!" he murmured.
Suddenly he laid his finger on a small rent in the old man's faded
vest. "You saw this, of course," said he, with a quick glance over
his shoulder at the silent detective.
No answer, as before.
"It's a new slit," declared the officious youth, looking closer,
"and—yes—there's blood on its edges. Here, take the lantern, Mr.
Fenton, I must see how the skin looks underneath. Oh, gentlemen,
no shirt! The poorest dockhand has a shirt! Brocaded vest and no
shirt; but he's past our pity now. Ah, only a bruise over the
heart. Sirs, what did you make out of this?"
As none of them had even seen it, Knapp was not the only one to
remain silent.
"Shall I tell you what I make out of it?" said the lad, rising
hurriedly from the floor, which he had as hurriedly examined.
"This old man has tried to take his life with the dagger already
wet with the blood of Agatha Webb. But his arm was too feeble. The
point only pierced the vest, wiping off a little blood in its
passage, then the weapon fell from his hand and struck the floor,
as you will see by the fresh dent in the old board I am standing
on. Have you anything to say against these simple deductions?"
Again the detective opened his lips and might have spoken, but
Sweetwater gave him no chance.
"Where is the letter he was writing?" he demanded. "Have any of
you seen any paper lying about here?"
"He was not writing," objected Knapp; "he was reading; reading in
that old Bible you see there."
Sweetwater caught up the book, looked it over, and laid it down,
with that same curious twinkle of his eye they had noted in him
before.
"He was writing," he insisted. "See, here is his pencil." And he
showed them the battered end of a small lead-pencil lying on the
edge of his chair.
"Writing at some time," admitted Knapp.
"Writing just before the deed," insisted Sweetwater. "Look at the
fingers of his right hand. They have not moved since the pencil
fell out of them."
"The letter, or whatever it was, shall be looked for," declared
the constable.
Sweetwater bowed, his eyes roving restlessly into every nook and
corner of the room.
"James was the stronger of the two," he remarked; "yet there is no
evidence that he made any attempt at suicide."
"How do you know that it was suicide John attempted?" asked
someone. "Why might not the dagger have fallen from James's hand
in an effort to kill his brother?"
"Because the dent in the floor would have been to the right of the
chair instead of to the left," he returned. "Besides, James's hand
would not have failed so utterly, since he had strength to pick up
the weapon afterward and lay it where you found it."
"True, we found it lying on the table," observed Abel, scratching
his head in forced admiration of his old schoolmate.
"All easy, very easy," Sweetwater remarked, seeing the wonder in
every eye. "Matters like those are for a child's reading, but what
is difficult, and what I find hard to come by, is how the twenty-
dollar bill got into the old man's hand. He found it here, but
how—"
"Found it here? How do you know that?"
"Gentlemen, that is a point I will make clear to you later, when I
have laid my hand on a certain clew I am anxiously seeking. You
know this is new work for me and I have to advance warily. Did any
of you gentlemen, when you came into this room, detect the
faintest odour of any kind of perfume?"
"Perfume?" echoed Abel, with a glance about the musty apartment.
"Rats, rather."
Sweetwater shook his head with a discouraged air, but suddenly
brightened, and stepping quickly across the floor, paused at one
of the windows. It was that one in which the shade had been drawn.
Peering at this shade he gave a grunt.
"You must excuse me for a minute," said he; "I have not found what
I wanted in this room and now must look outside for it. Will
someone bring the lantern?"
"I
Sweetwater.
The next minute he was hovering over the still more pathetic
figure of John, sitting in the chair.
"Sad! Sad!" he murmured.
Suddenly he laid his finger on a small rent in the old man's faded
vest. "You saw this, of course," said he, with a quick glance over
his shoulder at the silent detective.
No answer, as before.
"It's a new slit," declared the officious youth, looking closer,
"and—yes—there's blood on its edges. Here, take the lantern, Mr.
Fenton, I must see how the skin looks underneath. Oh, gentlemen,
no shirt! The poorest dockhand has a shirt! Brocaded vest and no
shirt; but he's past our pity now. Ah, only a bruise over the
heart. Sirs, what did you make out of this?"
As none of them had even seen it, Knapp was not the only one to
remain silent.
"Shall I tell you what I make out of it?" said the lad, rising
hurriedly from the floor, which he had as hurriedly examined.
"This old man has tried to take his life with the dagger already
wet with the blood of Agatha Webb. But his arm was too feeble. The
point only pierced the vest, wiping off a little blood in its
passage, then the weapon fell from his hand and struck the floor,
as you will see by the fresh dent in the old board I am standing
on. Have you anything to say against these simple deductions?"
Again the detective opened his lips and might have spoken, but
Sweetwater gave him no chance.
"Where is the letter he was writing?" he demanded. "Have any of
you seen any paper lying about here?"
"He was not writing," objected Knapp; "he was reading; reading in
that old Bible you see there."
Sweetwater caught up the book, looked it over, and laid it down,
with that same curious twinkle of his eye they had noted in him
before.
"He was writing," he insisted. "See, here is his pencil." And he
showed them the battered end of a small lead-pencil lying on the
edge of his chair.
"Writing at some time," admitted Knapp.
"Writing just before the deed," insisted Sweetwater. "Look at the
fingers of his right hand. They have not moved since the pencil
fell out of them."
"The letter, or whatever it was, shall be looked for," declared
the constable.
Sweetwater bowed, his eyes roving restlessly into every nook and
corner of the room.
"James was the stronger of the two," he remarked; "yet there is no
evidence that he made any attempt at suicide."
"How do you know that it was suicide John attempted?" asked
someone. "Why might not the dagger have fallen from James's hand
in an effort to kill his brother?"
"Because the dent in the floor would have been to the right of the
chair instead of to the left," he returned. "Besides, James's hand
would not have failed so utterly, since he had strength to pick up
the weapon afterward and lay it where you found it."
"True, we found it lying on the table," observed Abel, scratching
his head in forced admiration of his old schoolmate.
"All easy, very easy," Sweetwater remarked, seeing the wonder in
every eye. "Matters like those are for a child's reading, but what
is difficult, and what I find hard to come by, is how the twenty-
dollar bill got into the old man's hand. He found it here, but
how—"
"Found it here? How do you know that?"
"Gentlemen, that is a point I will make clear to you later, when I
have laid my hand on a certain clew I am anxiously seeking. You
know this is new work for me and I have to advance warily. Did any
of you gentlemen, when you came into this room, detect the
faintest odour of any kind of perfume?"
"Perfume?" echoed Abel, with a glance about the musty apartment.
"Rats, rather."
Sweetwater shook his head with a discouraged air, but suddenly
brightened, and stepping quickly across the floor, paused at one
of the windows. It was that one in which the shade had been drawn.
Peering at this shade he gave a grunt.
"You must excuse me for a minute," said he; "I have not found what
I wanted in this room and now must look outside for it. Will
someone bring the lantern?"
"I
Similar Books
