table and she did it," said Hutchings with the same vehemence.
"Any one who passed through the library would see that knife," said Mr. Flexen carelessly, but his eyes were very keen on Hutchings' face.
Hutchings was pale, and he went paler. He tried to stammer something, but his voice died in his throat.
"Well, I'm sorry you can't give me any information about this lady. Good afternoon," said Mr. Flexen, and he turned on his heel and went back to the car.
He was impressed by Hutchings' air and manner. Of course, believing himself to be suspected, the man was under a strain. But would the strain on him be so heavy as it plainly was, if he knew himself to be innocent? And then his eagerness to fasten the crime on the mysterious woman. It had been astonishingly intense, almost hysterical.
When he reached the Castle he found Inspector Perkins awaiting him with a small package which had come by special messenger from Scotland Yard. It contained enlarged photographs of the fingerprints on the handle of the knife. They were all curiously blurred.
The murderer had worn a glove.
