There were no signs of the weapon.

Tavernake peered over the railings.
"When my friend struck the other man and twisted him over," he explained, "the knife seemed to fly up into the air; it might even have reached the gardens." His companion turned slowly away.
"Well, it's no use looking down there for it," he remarked.

"We might try the door, if you like." They leaned their weight against it, hammered at the panels, and waited.
The door was fast closed and no reply came.

The musician shrugged his shoulders and prepared to depart, after one more glance at Tavernake, half suspicious, half questioning.
"If you think it worth while," he said, "you had better fetch the police, perhaps.

If you take my advice, though, I think I should go home and forget all about it." He passed on, leaving Tavernake speechless.