CHAPTER 31Randal March had done his best to be as good as his word, but he had failed. The house had been gone through with the proverbial finetooth-comb, but there was no discoverable trace of Laura Fane’s Chinese shawl. With its gaily embroidered blooms, its butterflies, and its torn fringe, it had vanished as completely as if it had possessed only the fantastic substance of a dream. Police superintendents do not readily believe in the fantastic. March set Sergeant Stebbins and Police Constable Pollock to the loathly task of sorting through the dustbins and the furnace ashes.
“They must have burned it,” he said, encountering Miss Silver in the hall. “There’s about a millionth chance of finding a shred or two.”
He put a hand on her arm and walked with her to the study. When they were in
