"Rope, knife, slipper, towel, clock."

The slip I had found behind the wash-stand said "Rope, knife, shoe,
towel. Horn--" The rest of the last word was torn off.

Mr. Howell was staring at the mantel. "Clock!" he repeated.




CHAPTER IV

It was after four when Mr. Holcombe had finished going over the room.
I offered to make both the gentlemen some tea, for Mr. Pitman had been
an Englishman, and I had got into the habit of having a cup in the
afternoon, with a cracker or a bit of bread. But they refused. Mr.
Howell said he had promised to meet a lady, and to bring her through
the flooded district in a boat. He shook hands with me, and smiled at
Mr. Holcombe.

"You will have to restrain his enthusiasm, Mrs. Pitman," he said. "He
is a bloodhound on the scent. If his baying gets on your nerves, just
send for me." He went down the stairs and stepped into the boat.
"Remember, Holcombe," he called, "every well-constituted murder has
two things: a motive and a corpse. You haven't either, only a mass of
piffling details--"

"If everybody waited until he saw flames, instead of relying on the
testimony of the smoke," Mr. Holcombe snapped, "what would the fire
loss be?"