he surgeon had hinted; for an expert has his uses.

"How long should you say she'd been dead, sir?" he asked affably.

"About ten hours," replied Thorndyke.

The inspector and the detective simultaneously looked at their watches.
"That fixes it at two o'clock this morning," said the former. "What's
that, sir?"

The surgeon was pointing to the wisp of hair in the dead girl's hand.

"My word!" exclaimed the inspector. "A woman, eh? She must be a tough
customer. This looks like a soft job for you, sergeant."

"Yes," said the detective. "That accounts for that box with the hassock
on it at the head of the bed. She had to stand on them to reach over.
But she couldn't have been very tall."

"She must have been mighty strong, though," said the inspector; "why,
she has nearly cut the poor wench's head off." He moved round to the
head of the bed, and, stooping over, peered down at the gaping wound.
Suddenly he began to draw his hand over the pillow, and then rub his
fingers together. "Why," he exclaimed, "there's sand on the
pillow--silver sand! Now, how can that have come there?"

The surgeon and the detective both came round to verify this discovery,
and an earnest consultation took place as to its meaning.

"Did you notice it, sir?" the inspector asked Thorndyke.

"Yes," replied the latter; "it's an unaccountable thing, isn't it?"

"I don't know that it is, either," said the detective, he ran over to
the washstand, and then uttered a grunt of satisfaction. "It's quite a
simple matter, after all, you see," he said, glancing complacently at my
colleague. "There's a ball of sand-soap on the washstand, and the basin
is full of blood-stained water. You see, she must have washed the blood
off her hands, and off the knife, too--a pretty cool customer she must
be--and she used the sand-soap. Then, while she was drying her hands,
she must have stood over the head of the bed, and let the sand fall on
to the pillow. I think that's clear enough."

"Admirably clear," said Thorndyke; "and what do you suppose was the
sequence of events?"

The gratified detective glanced round the room. "I take it," said he,
"that the deceased read herself to sleep. There is a book on the table
by the bed, and a candlestick with nothing in it but a bit of burnt wick
at the bottom of the socket. I imagine that the woman came in quietly,
lit the gas, put the box and the hassock at the bedhead, stood on them,
and cut her victim's throat. Deceased