Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

He went and sat down in one of the big leather armchairs which were placed near the fire. He took his snuffbox from his pocket and opened it carefully. If Dick Lovelace had not exhibited such manifest signs of anxiety when challenged about Orme Malone’s death, he would have dismissed the matter from his thoughts — for, after all, it was possible that the cigarette case had been lost on some occasion other than the fatal night.

But Dick’s pallor, and his refusal to discuss the subject farther than was absolutely necessary, had whetted his instinct as a detective. He took a pinch of snuff and shut the box with a snap. It was certain, at any rate, that Lovelace was himself hopelessly in love with Mrs. Malone.

He leaned forward in his chair. If one began with that fact and added to it the self-confessed jealousy of the dead man toward his wife.

“Hullo!”

He bent forward with his eyes fixed on a dark spot on the floor just below the fender. He rose and knelt down, at the same time setting his eyeglass in his eye.

The fender, and he could now see, had been shifted slightly out of its usual position, for the waxing of the floor stopped short just where the stain began. Perhaps he had moved it when he was warming himself.

He felt in his pocket and found the small magnifying glass which was as invariable a companion of his activities as his flash lamp. He focused it on the stain.

There could be no doubt that an effort — probably many efforts — had been made to wash the stain out of the wood. They had not succeeded, because the wood at this place was unwaxed.

With his pocket knife he carefully cut away a splinter of the stained wood. He rose to his feet.

He started slightly.

Dick Lovelace was standing on the staircase, watching him.

Dr. Hailey wondered whether or not he should put his cards on the table at once, and demand of Dick Lovelace an explanation of the discoveries which he had made.

He decided against that course. The stain, after all, might not be a blood stain, and, uncorroborated, the cigarette case was too flimsy a piece of evidence on which to base so grave a charge. He slipped the splinter of wood into his pocket and sat down again. He contrived to move the fender slightly with the toe of his boot, so as to cover the mark which his knife had made on the floor.

Dick came to him and gave him an exact account of his interview with Sacha. He laid special emphasis on the fact that, on his second visit to the room, the girl had mistaken him for Ninon Darelli.

“That is hashhish, isn’t it?”

“That is hashish. The effect of the dose she got last night must be wearing off.”

Dick was standing with his back to the fire. He raised one foot and set his instep on the top of the high fender.

“Is all the rest hashish also? I mean, about the influence of her husband?”

Dr. Hailey lowered his eyes. The fender had moved slightly.

“It is possible. On the other hand, there is no doubt that a bad man can deprave even the best woman. Drugs, as perhaps you know, frequently represent what modern psychology calls a ‘substitute.’ ”

Dick moved his knee so that the fender grated on the floor. He shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

“The use of them may symbolize an emotion which has not found its natural expression.” Dr. Hailey raised his eyes for a moment. “I fancy, for example,” he said, “that Lord Templewood took to drugs after his fiancée, Beatrice, was killed, though I don’t think that it was her death which impelled him to that course. As I suggested to you the other night, Beatrice’s last visit to this house was almost certainly a visit of tragedy.”

He broke off and glanced down again. The end of the hollow, from which he had cut his splinter of wood, was just showing beyond the edge of the fender.

“If we suppose that Beatrice came to break off her engagement, violent emotions must, from that hour, have been pent up in your employer’s heart. The accident next day, in the hunting field, removed forever all possibility of their release. Very well, then, those who are baulked of their satisfaction in the real world turn to the unreal, the world of dreams, of fantasies. The master key to that unreal world is dope. Dope becomes a symbol of the thing lost.”

The fender grated again. Dr. Hailey glanced up and perceived that his companion was gazing in horror at the cut in the floor. He saw him moisten his lips with his tongue.

“Why did you remove that piece of wood?” Dick asked in low tones and without raising his eyes.

“Because I am interested in what is called microspectroscopy. Every stain is a fresh problem to the student of that new branch of science.”

The fender grated again. The cut was covered from sight.

“As it happens,” the young man said, “I can save you the trouble of making an examination in this case. That is a bloodstain, and the blood is mine. I cut my finger here one night when I was trying to cut a cigar.”

Dr. Hailey rose and extracted his snuffbox.