committed, but no trace of it now remained, save an ugly, irregular stain upon the carpet. This carpet was a small square drugget in the centre of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful, old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks highly polished. Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of which had been used on that tragic night. In the window was a sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, the pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a taste which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.
“Seen the Paris news?” asked Lestrade.
Holmes nodded.
“Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No doubt it's just as they say. She knocked at the door—surprise visit, I guess, for he kept his life in water-tight compartments—he let her in, couldn't keep her in the street. She told him how she had traced him, reproached him, one thing led to another, and then with that dagger so handy the end soon came. It wasn't all done in an instant, though, for these chairs were all swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand as if he had tried to hold her off with it. We've got it all clear as if we had seen it.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
“And yet you have sent for me?”
“Ah, yes, that's another matter a mere trifle, but the sort of thing you take an interest in queer, you know, and what you might call freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact can't have, on the face of it.”
“What is it, then?”
“Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful to keep things in their position. Nothing has been moved. Of-
