“He removed his shoes—­either to help in climbing or to prevent noise—­ah—­here’s the foot!  Strange—­see how small it is—­and broad, how prehensile the toes—­almost like fingers.  Surely that foot could never have been encased in American shoes all its life.  I shall make plaster casts of these, to preserve later.”

He was still scouting about on hands and knees in the dampness of the rhododendrons.  Suddenly he reached his long arm in among the shrubs and picked up a little reed stick.  On the end of it was a small cylinder of buff brown.

He looked at it curiously, dug his nail into the soft mass, then rubbed his nail over the tip of his tongue gingerly.

With a wry face, as if the taste were extremely acrid, he moistened his handkerchief and wiped off his tongue vigorously.

“Even that minute particle that was on my nail makes my tongue tingle and feel numb,” he remarked, still rubbing.  “Let us go back again.  I want to see Bernardo.”

“Had he any visitors during the day?” queried Kennedy, as he reentered the ghastly little room, while the curator stood outside, completely unnerved by the tragedy which had been so close to him without his apparently knowing it.  Kennedy was squeezing out from the little wound on Northrop’s neck a few drops of liquid on a sterilized piece of glass.

“No; no one,” Bernardo answered, after a moment.

“Did you see anyone in the museum who looked suspicious?” asked Kennedy, watching Bernardo’s face keenly.

“No,” he hesitated.  “There were several people wandering about among the exhibits, of course.  One, I recall, late in the afternoon, was a little dark-skinned woman, rather good-looking.”

“A Mexican?”

“Yes, I should say so.  Not of Spanish descent, though.  She was rather of the Indian type.  She seemed to be much interested in the various exhibits, asked me several questions, very intelligently, too.  Really, I thought she was trying to—­er—­flirt with me.”

He shot a glance at Craig, half of confession, half of embarrassment.

“And—­oh, yes—­there was another—­a man, a little man, as I recall, with shaggy hair.  He looked like a Russian to me.  I remember, because he came to the door, peered around hastily, and went away.  I thought he might have got into the wrong part of the building and went to direct him right—­but before I could get out into the hall, he was gone.  I remember, too, that, as I turned, the woman had followed me and soon was asking other questions—­ which, I will admit—­I was glad to answer.”

“Was Northrop in his room while these people were here?”

“Yes; he had locked the door so that none of the students or visitors could disturb him.”

“Evidently the woman was diverting your attention while the man entered Northrop’s room by the window,” ruminated Craig, as we stood for a moment in the outside doorway.

He had already telephoned to our old friend Doctor Leslie, the coroner, to take charge of the case, and now was ready to leave.  The news had spread, and the janitor of the building was waiting to lock the campus door to keep back the crowd of students and others.