“How long has he been dead?”

Hinman lifted the stiff hand again and ran his fingers along the muscles of the arm.

“About four hours, I should say.”

Goldberger glanced at his watch.

“That would put his death at a little before midnight.  The murderer must have come in from the grounds, crept up behind his victim, thrown the cord about his neck and drawn it tight before his presence was suspected.  The victim would hardly have remained seated in the chair if he had known his danger.  After the cord was round his throat, he had no chance—­he could not even cry out.  There’s one thing I don’t understand, though,” he added, after a moment.  “Where did that blood come from?” and he pointed to the dark spots on the collar of the white robe.

Hinman looked up with a little exclamation.

“I forgot,” he said.  “Did you find the handkerchief?  No, I see you didn’t,” and he pointed to where it lay on the floor.  “I noticed it when I first looked at the body.”

Without a word, Goldberger bent and picked up the blood-stained handkerchief.  Then he and Simmonds examined it minutely.  Finally the coroner looked at Godfrey, and his eyes were very bright.

“There can be only one inference,” he said.  “The dead man is not bleeding—­the cord did not cut the flesh.  The blood, then, must have come from the murderer.  He must have been injured in some way—­bleeding profusely.  Look at this handkerchief—­it is fairly soaked.”

I am sure that, at that instant, the same thought was in Godfrey’s mind which flashed through mine, for our eyes met, and there was a shadow in his which I knew my own reflected.  Then I glanced at Hinman.  He was looking at the handkerchief thoughtfully, his lips tightly closed.  I could guess what he was thinking, but he said nothing.

Goldberger laid the handkerchief on the table, at last, and turned back to the body.  He bent close above it, examining the blood spots, and when he stood erect again there was in his face a strange excitement.

“Lend me your glass, Simmonds,” he said, and when Simmonds handed him a small pocket magnifying-glass, he unfolded it and bent above the stains again, scrutinising each in turn.  At last he closed the glass with an emphatic little snap.  “This case isn’t going to be so difficult, after all,” he said.  “Those spots are finger-prints.”

With an exclamation of astonishment, Simmonds took the glass and examined the stains; then he handed it to Godfrey, who finally passed it on to me.  Looking through it, I saw that Goldberger was right.  The stains had been made by human fingers.  Most of them were mere smudges, but here and there was one on which faint lines could be dimly traced.

“They seem to be pretty vague,” I remarked, passing the glass on to Hinman.

“They’re plenty clear enough for our purpose,” said Goldberger; “besides they will come out much clearer in photographs.  It’s lucky this stuff is so smooth and closely-woven,” he added, fingering a corner of the robe, “or we wouldn’t have got even those.  It’s as hard and fine as silk.”