"Wait! what makes you think this is the paper she took, or was believed to have taken, from Mr. Leavenworth’s table on that fatal morning?"
"Why, the fact that it was found together with the key, which we know she dropped into the grate, and that there are drops of blood on it."
I shook my head.
"Why do you shake your head?" asked Mr. Gryce.
"Because I am not satisfied with your reason for believing this to be the paper taken by her from Mr. Leavenworth’s table."
"And why?"
"Well, first, because Fobbs does not speak of seeing any paper in her hand, when she bent over the fire; leaving us to conclude that these pieces were in the scuttle of coal she threw upon it; which surely you must acknowledge to be a strange place for her to have put a paper she took such pains to gain possession of; and, secondly, for the reason that these scraps were twisted as if they had been used for curl papers, or something of that kind; a fact hard to explain by your hypothesis."
The detective’s eye stole in the direction of my necktie, which was as near as he ever came to a face. "You are a bright one," said he; "a very bright one. I quite admire you, Mr. Raymond."
A little surprised, and not altogether pleased with this unexpected compliment, I regarded him doubtfully for a moment and then asked:
"What is your opinion upon the matter?"
"Oh, you know I have no opinion. I gave up everything of that kind when I put the affair into your hands."
"Still"
