slipping it into his pocket, "suppose we lift him onto that couch by
the window and take a look through his clothes."

The man was slightly built, so that Simmonds and Goldberger raised
the body between them without difficulty and placed it on the couch.
I saw Godfrey's eyes searching the carpet.

"What I should like to know," he said, after a moment, "is this: if
this fellow took poison, what did he take it out of? Where's the
paper, or bottle, or whatever it was?"

"Maybe it's in his hand," suggested Simmonds, and lifted the right
hand, which hung trailing over the side of the couch.

Then, as he raised it into the light, a sharp cry burst from him.

"Look here," he said, and held the hand so that we all could see.

It was swollen and darkly discoloured.

"See there," said Simmonds, "something bit him," and he pointed to
two deep incisions on the back of the hand, just above the knuckles,
from which a few drops of blood had oozed and dried.

With a little exclamation of surprise and excitement, Godfrey bent
for an instant above the injured hand. Then he turned and looked at
us.

"This man didn't take poison," he said, in a low voice. "He was
killed!"