“Yet she was killed that way?”      

       “Undoubtedly, and by a long and very narrow blade, larger than a needle but not so large as the ordinary stiletto.”      

       “Stabbed while by herself, or what you may call by herself? She had no companion near her?”      

       “None, if we can believe the four members of the Parrish family who were seated at the other end of the room.”      

       “And you do believe them?”      

       “Would a whole family lie—and needlessly? They never knew the woman—father, maiden aunt and two boys, clear-eyed, jolly young chaps whom even the horror of this tragedy, perpetrated as it were under their very nose, cannot make serious for more than a passing moment.”      

       “It wouldn’t seem so.”      

       “Yet they swear up and down that nobody crossed the room towards Miss Challoner.”      

       “So they tell me.”      

       “She fell just a few feet from the desk where she had been writing. No word, no cry, just a collapse and sudden fall. In olden days they would have said, struck by a bolt from heaven. But it was a bolt which drew blood; not much blood, I hear, but sufficient to end life almost instantly. She never looked up or spoke again. What do you make of it, Gryce?”      

       “It’s a tough one, and I’m not ready to venture an opinion yet. I should like to see the desk you speak of, and the spot where she fell.”      

       A young fellow who had been hovering in the background at once stepped       forward. He was the plain-faced detective who had spoken to George.     

       “Will you take my arm, sir?”      

       Mr. Gryce’s whole face brightened. This Sweetwater, as they called him, was, I have since understood, one of his proteges and more or less of a favourite.     

       “Have you had a chance at this thing?” he asked. “Been over the ground—studied the affair carefully?”      

       “Yes, sir; they were good enough to allow it.”      

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