Free Dead Man's Quarry by Ianthe Jerrold

hands, one of which was bruised and broken at the wrist, were large, rough-skinned and ill-cared-for, but shapely.
    There was a silence, during which the shed seemed to be filled with the loud humming of a large bee, which was endeavouring to find a way out through the closed, cobwebby panes of the window.
    â€œYes,” repeated Felix. “It’s Charles right enough. I’d hoped—”
    He broke off suddenly and turned away.
    â€œDr. Browning tells me,” remarked Lovell, looking quietly down at all that was left of Sir Charles Price, “that a signet-ring is missing. Did you notice a ring on the finger yesterday, Mr. Felix?”
    â€œYes,” answered Felix, watching the exasperated bee with vague, unseeing eyes. “He always wore one on the little finger of his right hand. It may have fallen off.”
    â€œWas it loose?” Lovell picked up the limp right hand and casually compared its size with his own.
    â€œI don’t know,” replied Felix. “I didn’t notice that it was. But it may have been.”
    â€œLarge knuckles,” remarked the Superintendent. “It would have to be a very loose ring that would slip off that finger.” He turned to John. “You’re wearing a ring, sir. Would you lend it me a moment? That is,” he added, perceiving something gruesome in his request, “if you don’t mind.”
    John, not quite sure whether he minded or not, obediently slipped off the ring he wore on his little finger and handed it to Lovell. But the demonstration came to nothing. The ring would not go over the joint. Lovell handed it back.
    â€œYou can take my word for it, though,” he remarked. “A ring that would slip off that finger would have to be so loose its owner would never dream of wearing it there. The ground’s been searched both at the top and bottom of the quarry, too. Well, it may turn up. I should be glad if you would look over the contents of the pockets, Mr. Felix, and tell me if anything is missing as far as you know. You’ll find them all set out on the bench over there. I’ve made a list.”
    While Felix glanced over the array of small objects set out on the dusty bench, Superintendent Lovell read from the paper in his hand.
    â€œA gold cigarette-case, two boxes of matches, a note-case containing five pounds in paper, seven and twopence in loose cash, a silk handkerchief, a bunch of keys, a silver pencil-case, a fountain-pen filled with red ink, a small photograph, a tube of cold cream, a few strands of wool, two cigarette cards and a handkerchief which has been used as a bandage.”
    Felix looked vaguely at the small collection, which had a look of pathos set out thus neatly and incongruously on the dusty bench.
    â€œI don’t know what he had in his pocket,” he said. “As far as I know, nothing’s missing. I recognize some of the things. The handkerchief, and the cigarette-case, and the photograph. And I remember he had a tube of cold cream, for sunburn. And a fountain-pen with red ink in it. Yes, all those things are Charles’s, I think, and I don’t remember seeing anything that isn’t there now.”
    â€œWhose photograph is this?” asked Lovell, pointing to the little browned photo which represented a smiling girl of twenty in a frilled, old-fashioned dress.
    â€œMy cousin’s,” answered Felix, with a glance at Blodwen, in whose eyes for the first time showed a sudden look of horror and regret. She gave one glance at the little photograph and turned aside.
    â€œDid he always write with red ink?” pursued Lovell. “I don’t think so. But his pen ran dry, and we were miles from a shop, and he borrowed some ink from Lion Browning. Lion’s black ink was Indian, which would have corroded his pen, so he had red.”
    Lovell nodded, and went on:
    â€œDo you know what he used the bandage for?”
    â€œHe was limping a little the