Mr. Sutherland, recalled to himself by these words, looked quickly
about him. With the exception of the table and what was on and by
it there was nothing else in the room. Naturally his glance
returned to Philemon Webb.

"I don't see anything but this poor sleeping man," he began.

"Look at his sleeve."

Mr. Sutherland, with a start, again bent down. The arm of his old
friend lay crooked upon the table, and on its blue cotton sleeve
there was a smear which might have been wine, but which was--
blood.

As Mr. Sutherland became assured of this, he turned slightly pale
and looked inquiringly at the two men who were intently watching
him.

"This is bad," said he. "Any other marks of blood below stairs?"

"No; that one smear is all."

"Oh, Philemon!" burst from Mr. Sutherland, in deep emotion. Then,
as he looked long and shudderingly at his friend, he added slowly:

"He has been in the room where she was killed; so much is evident.
But that he understood what was done there I cannot believe, or he
would not be sleeping here like a log. Come, let us go up-stairs."