As McLane took another scalpel from his surgical kit, Gerald Armstrong ran down the staircase and joined Anne. He was followed more leisurely by Lucille Hull. She shuddered slightly as Mitchell displayed the discolored scalpel before wrapping it securely in his handkerchief and placing it in his pocket. To Anne the minutes seemed endless as she waited for Mitchell to mount the staircase and instruct Detective Sergeant Brown in the role he was to assume.
“What is going on?” demanded Armstrong. He made no attempt to modify his naturally strident voice and it grated on Anne. McLane caught her sudden start, and guessing the strain she was under, explained the situation in a few words. Lucille listened with close attention, her eyes following the movements of the two men on the floor above as far as she could see them.
“Watch out, down below,” called Mitchell. “Stand back a little further, Doctor Curtis; you are too near.”
Curtis retreated a few steps. Anne put out her hand to guide him but dropped it hurriedly on catching her cousin’s gaze; there was a mocking gleam in Lucille’s eyes which brought the hot color to Anne’s pale cheeks with a rush. It had not faded when the silence was broken by the sound of a heavy fall.
A piece of glittering steel came flying through the air. It fell without sound among the ferns and was lost to sight.
Leonard McLane was the first to speak. He waited until Mitchell and Sergeant Brown reached them.
“You were right, Mitchell,” he said, addressing the Inspector. “The scalpel fell directly into this box,” laying his hand upon it. “It is the fourth box from the one where you found the discolored scalpel.”
“Then our theory is correct,” declared Mitchell. He bowed gravely to Anne. “Thank you, Miss Meredith.”
Before she could reply Herman appeared from the pantry.
“You are wanted on the telephone, Doctor Curtis,” he announced. “This way, sir,” and in silence Curtis accepted the butler’s guidance.
A second more and the little group in the square reception hall broke up; Anne accompanying her cousin to her bedroom, and Armstrong, at a quiet word from Inspector Mitchell, led the way into the library, followed by the two police officials.
Left to himself Leonard McLane repacked his surgical kit and took up his hat and overcoat; then he paused before opening the front door and stood in thought. Fully two minutes passed before he moved. Replacing his hat, overcoat and bag on the hall table he turned around and went slowly upstairs, and entered David Curtis’ bedroom. Except for himself the bedroom was empty.