— — —Now it was all over. Daisy Arrow had been taken to the mortuary, the doctor had come and gone; the back room where Belle had heard that man’s pleasant voice which had been silenced by her exasperated knocking, had been sealed up and put in charge of the police.
That, as Belle had foreknown, was a mere formula, because the whole apartment had already been carefully searched and had revealed nothing extraordinary, except the large stained clasp-knife with which the crime had been committed — the overbrimming basin in which the murderer had washed his hands, and the torn towel on which he had wiped them. For the rest, nothing but trivial commonplace things — some of Daisy Arrow’s finery on a hook — some of Daisy Arrow’s finery in the drawer — cheap furniture, already well-worn and marke
