“No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric⁠—only a thread or two, but recognizable.”

“Ah!” I cried. “That was what you sealed up in the envelope.”

“Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp’s own dresses, and quite unimportant. We shall see. Five, this !” With a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candle grease on the floor by the writing-table. “It must have been done since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid would have at once removed it with blotting-paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats once⁠—but that is not to the point.”

“It was very likely done last night. We were very agitated. Or perhaps Mrs. Inglethorp herself dropped her candle.”