ously. There was an incessant pounding in my ears, and the conductor's voice came from far off.
"It is blood," he asserted grimly.
I looked around with a dizzy attempt at nonchalance. "Even if it is," I remonstrated, "surely you don't suppose for a moment that I know anything about it!"
The amateur detective elbowed his way in. He had a scrap of transparent paper in his hand, and a pencil.
"I would like permission to trace the stains," he began eagerly. "Also"—to me—"if you will kindly jab your finger with a pin—needle—anything—"
"If you don't keep out of this," the conductor said savagely, "I will do some jabbing myself. As for you, sir—" he turned to me. I was absolutely innocent, but I knew that I presented a typical picture of guilt; I was covered with cold sweat, and the pounding in my ears kept up dizzily. "As for you, sir—"
The irrepressible amateur detective made a quick pounce at the pillow and pushed back the
