ative painting that you know of. He laid one lean inquiring finger
on the small smear, just under the lock, which Superintendent Seegrave
had already noticed, when he reproved the women-servants for all
crowding together into the room.

"That's a pity," says Sergeant Cuff. "How did it happen?"

He put the question to me. I answered that the women-servants had
crowded into the room on the previous morning, and that some of their
petticoats had done the mischief, "Superintendent Seegrave ordered them
out, sir," I added, "before they did any more harm."

"Right!" says Mr. Superintendent in his military way. "I ordered them
out. The petticoats did it, Sergeant--the petticoats did it."

"Did you notice which petticoat did it?" asked Sergeant Cuff, still
addressing himself, not to his brother-officer, but to me.

"No, sir."

He turned to Superintendent Seegrave upon that, and said, "You noticed,
I suppose?"

Mr. Superintendent looked a little taken aback; but he made the best
of it. "I can't charge my memory, Sergeant," he said, "a mere trifle--a
mere trifle."

Sergeant Cuff looked at Mr. Seegrave, as he had looked at the gravel
walks in the rosery, and gave us, in his melancholy way, the first taste
of his quality which we had had yet.

"I made a private inquiry last week, Mr. Superintendent," he said. "At
one end of the inquiry there was a murder, and at the other end there
was a spot of ink on a table cloth that nobody could account for. In all
my experience along the dirtiest ways of this dirty little world, I have
never met with such a thing as a trifle yet. Before we go a step further
in this business we must see the petticoat that made the smear, and we
must know for certain when that paint was wet."

Mr. Superintendent--taking his set-down rather sulkily--asked if he
should summon the women. Sergeant Cuff, after considering a minute,
sighed, and shook his head.

"No," he said, "we'll take the matter of the paint first. It's a
question of Yes or No with the paint--which is short. It's a question of
petticoats with the women--which is long. What o'clock was it when the
servants were in this room yesterday morning? Eleven o'clock--eh? Is
there anybody in the house who knows whether that paint was wet or dry,
at eleven yesterday morning?"

"Her ladyship's nephew, Mr. Franklin Blake, knows," I said.

"Is the gentleman in the house?"

Mr. Franklin was as close at hand as could be--waiting for his first
cha