"Why the deuce didn't you think of that earlier, before all the world
and his wife began investigating the place? Come on! Bring my horse and
your own."

Within half an hour, Captain Arnutt, Dick Vaughan, Jan, and one town
constable were alone in the little littered room of the tragedy, where
the dead lay practically as they had been discovered. Two incriminating
articles only had been found: a sheath-knife with a carved haft, and a
black soft felt hat. There was no name or initials on either, and both
might conceivably have belonged to the murdered man. As yet no one had
identified either article with any owner. The hat had been trodden down
by a boot-heel in a slither of blood on the floor-cloth of the squalid
little room.

Some chances had to be taken. Dick believed the hat and knife belonged
to the murderer, who had apparently ransacked the till of the little
shop and broken open a small carved and painted box which may have
contained money. It was perhaps impossible that Jan could understand
that murder had been done. But there was no shadow of doubt he knew
grave matters were toward. The concentrated earnestness of Dick Vaughan
had somehow communicated itself to the hound's mind. It was the hat and
not the knife to which Dick pinned his faith--the cheap, soiled,
crimson-lined felt hat, with its horrid stains and its imprint of a
boot-heel.

"It may have belonged to this poor chap," said Captain Arnutt, pointing
to the body of the shopkeeper. "It's just the kind nine Dagoes out of
ten do wear."