Her demeanor that morning, I was forced to admit, was what might have
been expected, had she been guilty. Her swooning fits, alternating with
those sudden effects of extreme haughtiness and bravado, were just what
one might expect from a woman of her conflicting emotions.
That she had a temper similar in kind, if not in degree, to her late
uncle's, I could not doubt; that she was impulsive, and could be
irritated even to frenzy, I did not doubt; and yet I loved her, and I
did not believe her guilty.
This was probably cause and effect, but never would I believe the girl
responsible in any way for the crime until she told me so herself. But
could she have been an accessory thereto, or could she have caused or
connived at it? Could I imagine her so desperate at her hard lot as
to--but pshaw! what was the use of imagining? If, as I had often
thought, I had even a slight detective ability, why not search for other
clues that must exist, and that would, at least, give me a hint as to
which direction I might look for the criminal?
Determined, then, to find something further I went to Mr. Pembroke's
bedroom. There I found Inspector Crawford on his hands and knees, still
searching for the broken end of the hat-pin.
But, though we both went over every inch of the floor and furniture,
nothing could be found that could be looked upon as a clue of any sort.
"Of course," I observed, "the intruder carried the end of the pin away
with him, after he broke it off."
"What are you talking about?" almost snarled the inspector. "An intruder
is a physical impossibility. Even the skeleton man from the museum
couldn't slide through a door that could open only three inches. And,
too, men don't wear hat-pins. It is a woman's weapon."