“I suppose. Inspector,” said Mr. Ingles, “that the bruise on the head was inflicted before death?”

“Quite right, sir. First knocked him silly, the murderer did, and then cut his throat. That’s clear enough. But how the dickens did he come or go? They notice strangers quick enough in a little place like this. It came to me all at once⁠—nobody did come. I took a good look round. It had rained the night before, and there were footprints clear enough going in and out of the kitchen. In the living room there were two sets of footprints only (Betsy Andrews’s stopped at the door)⁠— Mr. Whalley’s (he was wearing carpet slippers) and another man’s. The other man had stepped in the bloodstains, and I traced his bloody footprints⁠—I beg your pardon, sir.”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Ingles, with a faint smile; “the adjective is perfectly understood.”