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

As soon as he reached Harley Street, he went to the small laboratory which he had recently installed and took the splinter of stained wood from his pocket. He set the splinter in a test-tube and poured a few drops of a clear fluid into the tube beside it.

Half an hour later the clear fluid had assumed a delicate pink hue. He placed a few drops of it under his microscope.

There was nothing to be seen but a blur of débris, which might be anything or nothing. He rose, and with great care screwed an instrument, like a small brass telescope, to the eyepiece of the microscope. Then he looked again.

The new instrument showed him the seven colors of the spectrum, the “rainbow colors”; it showed him also that, in this case, two dark bands, placed close together, crossed the spectrum. One of these was in the orange and the other lay at the junction of the yellow and the green.

“Blood!”

He rose and took another test-tube. He poured a little of the pink fluid into it, and added to this two or three drops of a substance from a bottle labeled “Tincture of guaiac.” The test-tube seemed, immediately, to be filled with milk. He took a bottle of ozonic ether, and added a little of that substance to the milky fluid. A ring of delicate blue formed around the tube, at the point where the two fluids met.

“Blood!”

He rang the bell, and ordered his man, Jenkins, to call a cab.

He told the driver to take him to 2000 Brook Street.

Dr. Hailey’s impression of Ninon Darelli’s waiting room was rather different from Sacha’s impression. Where Sacha had seen only the simplicity of a convent, the eyes of the man detected corruption. Innocence, he reflected, which is conscious, is utter depravity.

He seated himself on one of the bare chairs that looked as if pious hands scrubbed them daily in pious service. He focused his eyeglass on the wooden arm at his side. It had been painted with clear lacquer, which, at a distance, was invisible.

There was dust on the lacquer.

There was dust, too, on the table in the center of the room, on the petals of the deep blue anemones which decorated the table, on the walls — everywhere; the more unchaste by reason of its inconspicuousness.

He closed his eyes. Suddenly he leaned forward, listening.

Quick footsteps were approaching along the corridor.

The steps came to the door of the room. They paused there, an instant, and then resumed their way. Dr. Hailey sprang to the door and threw it open. He saw a woman fumbling with the latch of the front door. Before she was able to open the door he was at her side.

“From here,” he said in low tones, “I go straight to Scotland Yard. They will know there how to deal with — murder.”

Ninon Darelli’s hands fell away from the latch. She caught her breath. The door moved gently ajar, impelled by some errant breath of wind.

Dr. Hailey shut the door.

Chapter XXIX From a Branding Iron

Ninon Darelli led the way back to the waiting room from which Dr. Hailey had just come. She stood aside for him to enter the room, and. then followed him into it and dosed the door behind her.

“I have some one with me to consult me in my own room,” she announced.

She indicated one of the bare chairs. The doctor drew it up to the dusty table and sat down. He waited until she should be seated, but she remained standing with the tips of her fingers resting on the table.

“What do you want with me?” she asked.

“I want you to tell me exactly what happened at The Black Tower on the night on which Orme Malone, Mrs. Malone’s husband, met his death.”

Dr. Hailey’s tones were gentle. He saw the pink finger tips move slightly, as though the pressure on them had been relaxed suddenly.

“I do not think that anything happened.”

“You were in the castle on that night?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear anything?”

Ninon closed the hand on which she had been leaning. Then she extended her index finger. He saw her draw her finger across the dust which lay on the tabletop.

She shook her head.

“It is not easy to hear in that house.”

He thought a moment, and then asked:

“What bedroom did you occupy at that time?”

“Always the same. It is at the back of the house, you know.”

“But its door opens on the gallery above the great hall.”

“Oh, yes.”

Ninon’s finger crossed the first line with a second.

“Orme Malone,” Dr. Hailey said, “met his death in the great hall.”

His eyes were fixed on her face. She did not flinch.

“I do not know. It was said otherwise at the time.”

She withdrew her hands altogether from the table. She flung the hair back from her brows.

“I find it very difficult to believe that you do not know,” he said. “Malone rode to the door of the house. He rode across the drawbridge. He knocked on the door. And he was drunk. After his death, his body was carried out of the house. As I have reason to know, the sound of a horse’s hooves at the front door is clearly audible in most parts of the castle.”

He broke off. His gaze was still set on her face.

“I do not know. That night I went to sleep very early.”