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"Come here," he said, bustling back into the room,
the atmosphere of which felt clearer since the removal
of its ghastly inmate. "Now, stand there!"

He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.

"Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.

I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts.
In this particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled
off, leaving a yellow square of coarse plastering. Across
this bare space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a
single word --


RACHE.


"What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the
air of a showman exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked
because it was in the darkest corner of the room, and no one
thought of looking there. The murderer has written it with
his or her own blood. See this smear where it has trickled
down the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide anyhow.
Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will tell you.
See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time,
and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest instead
of the darkest portion of the wall."

"And what does it mean now that you _have_ found it?" asked
Gregson in a depreciatory voice.

"Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the
female name Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had
time to finish. You mark my words, when this case comes to
be cleared up you will find that a woman named Rachel has
something to do with it. It's all very well for you to laugh,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever,
but the old hound is the best, when all is said and done."

"I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had
ruffled the little man's temper by bursting into an explosion
of laughter. "You certainly have the credit of being the
first of us to find this out, and, as you say, it bears every
mark of having been written by the other participant in last
night's mystery. I have not had time to examine this room
yet, but with your permission I shall do so now."

As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round
magnifying glass from his pocket. With these two implements
he trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping,
occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face.
So engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to
have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to himself
under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of
exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive
of encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was
irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound
as it dashes backwards and forwards through the covert,
whining in its eagerness, until it comes across the lost
scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his
researches, measuring with the most exact care the distance
between marks which were entirely invisible to me, and

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