Three Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie Page A

curiously.
    â€œNothing,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “nothing.”
    â€œIt’s odd, certainly,” said Sir Charles, and he, too, stared at the scene of the accident in a puzzled manner.
    They got into the car and drove off.
    Mr. Satterthwaite was busy with his thoughts. Mrs. de Rushbridger—Cartwright’s theory wouldn’t work—it wasn’t acode message—there was such a person. But could there be something about the woman herself? Was she perhaps a witness of some kind, or was it just because she was an interesting case that Bartholomew Strange had displayed this unusual elation? Was she, perhaps, an attractive woman? To fall in love at the age of fifty-five did (Mr. Satterthwaite had observed it many a time) change a man’s character completely. It might, perhaps, make him facetious, where before he had been aloof—
    His thoughts were interrupted. Sir Charles leant forward.
    â€œSatterthwaite,” he said, “do you mind if we turn back?”
    Without waiting for a reply, he took up the speaking tube and gave the order. The car slowed down, stopped, and the chauffeur began to reverse into a convenient lane. A minute or two later they were bowling along the road in the opposite direction.
    â€œWhat is it?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
    â€œI’ve remembered,” said Sir Charles, “what struck me as odd. It was the ink stain on the floor in the butler’s room.”

Six
C ONCERNING AN I NK S TAIN
    M r. Satterthwaite stared at his friend in surprise.
    â€œThe ink stain? What do you mean, Cartwright?”
    â€œYou remember it?”
    â€œI remember there was an ink stain, yes.”
    â€œYou remember its position?”
    â€œWell—not exactly.”
    â€œIt was close to the skirting board near the fireplace.”
    â€œYes, so it was. I remember now.”
    â€œHow do you think that stain was caused, Satterthwaite?”
    â€œIt wasn’t a big stain,” he said at last. “It couldn’t have been an upset ink bottle. I should say in all probability that the man dropped his fountain pen there—there was no pen in the room, you remember.” (He shall see I notice things just as much as he does, thought Mr. Satterthwaite.) “So it seems clear the man must have had a fountain pen if he ever wrote at all—and there’s no evidence that he ever did.”
    â€œYes, there is, Satterthwaite. There’s the ink stain.”
    â€œHe mayn’t have been writing,” snapped Satterthwaite. “He may have just dropped the pen on the floor.”
    â€œBut there wouldn’t have been a stain unless the top had been off the pen.”
    â€œI daresay you’re right,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “But I can’t see what’s odd about it.”
    â€œPerhaps there isn’t anything odd,” said Sir Charles. “I can’t tell till I get back and see for myself.”
    They were turning in at the lodge gates. A few minutes later they had arrived at the house and Sir Charles was allaying the curiosity caused by his return by inventing a pencil left behind in the butler’s room.
    â€œAnd now,” said Sir Charles, shutting the door of Ellis’s room behind them, having with some skill shaken off the helpful Mrs. Leckie, “let’s see if I’m making an infernal fool of myself, or whether there’s anything in my idea.”
    In Mr. Satterthwaite’s opinion the former alternative was by far the more probable, but he was much too polite to say so. He sat down on the bed and watched the other.
    â€œHere’s our stain,” said Sir Charles, indicating the mark with his foot. “Right up against the skirting board at the opposite side of the room to the writing table. Under what circumstances would a man drop a pen just there?”
    â€œYou can drop a pen anywhere,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
    â€œYou can hurl it across the room, of