gie-, and put them down and went back to the body of Birdie Bolton.
That stab in the throat, it was "not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door"; it was a small wound to be mortal. A small neat wound which had rare luck to slit the jugular vein. Reggie looked back at the bodkin and the scissors. He noticed that Mrs. Betts had gone out.
There were other wounds. In half a dozen places the pallid shoulders and breast had bled. No one of these gashes was serious. They were just such as might be expected of those unhandy weapons, scissors and bodkin. It was that neat, lucky stroke at the throat which determined the fate of Birdie Bolton. The minor wounds suggested a struggle with some one in a passion, and that Miss Bolton had struggled Reggie found other evidence. The black evening dress had been dragged from one shoulder and torn, and there on that right shoulder were the blue marks of a hand that had gripped. Reggie's examination became more minute.
Two men bustled in. A hand tapped Reggie's shoulder. "Now, sir, if you please."
Reggie stood up and confronted a pompous, portly little man.
"I am Dr. Fortune," Reggie said. "Miss Bolton was a patient of mine."
"Was," said the little man, with emphasis. "She is a case for an expert now, Dr. Fortune."
