"Whose blood, then, was it?"
"Kindly get out of the window on the balcony, my dear."
She stepped over the low sill, unconsciously placing her left hand on the frame to steady herself. Her fingers touched the paint about two inches below the bloody smutch.
"Well, my dear, it certainly isn't your blood, at least," said Astro.
"Marie's, then? She is taller than I."
"She had no wound on her hand. I examined them both carefully."
"And there was none on James'."
"Nor the aunt's. If you have looked all you wish to, you might go down to the kitchen and talk to the cook. It was said in the paper that she had a bad temper, and had lately quarreled with Miss Denton. To be sure, all good cooks have bad tempers; but, as the police didn't see fit to arrest her, she may possibly be the murderer. See what you can do. I shall remain here for a while. There's much to be done, and I'm in a hurry to earn my thousand dollars."
When Valeska had left, Astro resumed his study of the room, going over it inch by inch, looking again at the window, finally turning to the balcony. The care with which he worked showed that the Master of Mysteries was unusually perplexed. After examining the floor and rail of the balcony, he drew a bird glass from his pocket and spent a half-hour gazing at the elm whose branches stretched toward the window. Off the balcony was another window, from the room next to the boudoir. This, too, he examined carefully. Then he smiled slightly, put up the glass, and re-
