He had been stabbed just over the heart, and my first thought was of that odd Indian knife which I had seen lying on his study table.

I turned quickly to seek it, but it was gone.

And as I looked at the table it came to me that here in this dusty room there must be finger prints--many finger prints.
The room was quite in order, despite those sounds of struggle.

One or two odd matters met my eye.

On the table stood a box from a florist in Bond Street.