Rodney rose, walked over to Nell, and took possession of the fur neckpiece. It was soft and pliable, a fine quality of Russian sable, and he examined minutely the place where the brown cord loop had been sewn.
“You’re sure this is Emily’s, Nell? What do you think, Betty?”
“It must be, Rod,” Betty returned, “as Pearl sewed it.”
“Then how did it get down there, under Polly’s body?”
“That’s our starting point,” said Pete. “And we must follow it up.”
“Yes,” Rodney said, “it’s time some detective work was done. I don’t mean to disparage your efforts, Gibby, but you’re amateur. The police detective is far from being really clever. Tomorrow, I shall get the best detective in the world, whoever he is, and set him on the trail. You all think I sit here like a bump on a log—and I do,” he added,
