THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
you, Dr. Sheppard, shall we investigate that summerhouse? It interests me."
He went up to the door and opened it. Inside, the place was almost dark. There were one or two rustic seats, a croquet set, and some folded deck-chairs.
I was startled to observe my new friend. He had dropped to his hands and knees and was crawling about the floor. Every now and then he shook his head as though not satisfied. Finally, he sat back on his heels.
"Nothing," he murmured. "Well, perhaps it was not to be expected. But it would have meant so much———"
He broke off, stiffening all over. Then he stretched out his hand to one of the rustic chairs. He detached something from one side of it.
"What is it?" I cried. "What have you found?"
He smiled, unclosing his hand so that I should see what lay in the palm of it. A scrap of stiff white cambric.
I took it from him, looked at it curiously, and then handed it back.
"What do you make of it, eh, my friend?" he asked, eyeing me keenly.
"A scrap torn from a handkerchief," I suggested, shrugging my shoulders.
He made another dart and picked up a small quill—a goose quill by the look of it.
"And that?" he cried triumphantly. "What do you make of that?"
I only stared.
He slipped the quill into his pocket, and looked again at the scrap of white stuff.
[104]
