"Is it not true, Mr. Morgan," he asked suddenly, "that Miss Temple was violently opposed to any marriage with Mr. Ashton, and that either his death, or the abstracting of the jewel which was to have been the price paid by him for her hand, would have been of great benefit to her?"
"Miss Temple could have no hand in such an affair. It is preposterous!" I cried angrily.
"I do not imply that she could, or would." The Inspector was irritatingly calm. "I merely asked you if such an event or events would not have been to her benefit?"
"I suppose they would," I answered, sulkily, "if you put it that way."
"Did not Miss Temple ask you to assist her in preventing this marriage, Mr. Morgan, the night before the tragedy, and did you not promise to help her in every way in your power?"
"This is absurd," I cried, now thoroughly angry. "You will be accusing me of murdering Mr. Ashton next."
"So long as we have not done so, Mr. Morgan, you need not accuse yourself. We only know, so far, that the jewel for which Mr. Ashton was murdered has been found in your possession."
The significant way in which he uttered these words thrilled me with a vague sense of alarm. There upon the table, before Sergeant McQuade, lay Miss Temple's telegram. It was open, and I felt sure he had already read it. My mind seemed confused--my brain on fire. The Inspector turned to McQuade. "Sergeant," he said, "you have the handkerchief in question with you, I believe?"
McQuade nodded, then drew from his pocket a leather wallet, and, extracting the folded handkerchief from its recesses, spread it carefully upon the table. He then produced a magnifying glass from one of his pockets and requested me to examine the surface of the bit of cambric and lace. I did so, and observed that it was covered with minute particles of some green substances, some very small, others of considerable size. I did not at first realize what they were.
"Do you see anything?" asked the Inspector.
"Yes," I replied. "The handkerchief is full of fine green specks, but I cannot imagine what they are."
"They are bits of soap, Mr. Morgan," said the detective, as he folded up the handkerchief and replaced it in his wallet.
"Soap," I cried, more than ever mystified.