It was Minna Pitts. Yet it was
difficult for me to believe that a woman of her ordinary
gentleness could be here to-night, faced even by so great
exposure, yet be so solicitous for him as she had been and then at
the same time be plotting against him. I gave it up, determining
to let Kennedy unravel it in his own way.
Craig evidently had the same thought in his mind, however, for he
continued: "Was it a woman who killed the chef? No, for the third
specimen of blood, that of the white person, was the blood of a
man; not of a woman."
Pitts had been following closely, his unnatural eyes now gleaming.
"You said he was wounded, you remember," he interrupted, as if
casting about in his mind to recall some one who bore a recent
wound. "Perhaps it was not a bad wound, but it was a wound
nevertheless, and some one must have seen it, must know about it.
It is not three days."
Kennedy shook his head. It was a point that had bothered him a
great deal.
"As to the wounds," he added in a measured tone "although this
occurred scarcely three days ago, there is no person even remotely
suspected of the crime who can be said to bear on his hands or
face others than old scars of wounds.
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