MURDER IN THE GARDEN

The only marks on the body were deep bruises made by powerful fingers on the beautiful white throat. Strangled. The Professor was baffled.

It seemed such a senseless crime! Who could have killed this charming, unsophisticated girl only a month out of a convent? A thorough probing failed to disclose the slightest motive. Fordney had come to the conclusion it was the work of a homicidal maniac, when Sergeant Reynolds pushed Hip Ling, the family cook, into the room.

“The chauffeur says he saw this Chink lurking in the garden just before the girl was murdered last night. I’m going to take his prints and see if we have them at headquarters.”

As the Chinaman’s hand was pressed to the pad, Fordney observed the man’s lithe strength, the long-nailed, powerful fingers, the unusual reach of the arms. He also noticed he was left-handed. The traditional imperturbability of the Oriental, however, was lacking. Here was a badly frightened, greatly excited, wildly gesticulating Chinaman!

Loudly Hip Ling proclaimed his innocence. He admitted being in the garden waiting to meet a smuggler who had agreed to bring his brother into the country. Nothing could induce him, however, to name this man. Fear of the tongs, he said. When he stated he had seen no one but Miss Hazel, who for a long time, stood silently staring up at the stars, Reynolds let out a yell and slapped the cuffs on him.

“You don’t believe him, eh, Sergeant?” inquired Fordney. “Well, stars were shining last night. No, Ling didn’t murder the girl!”

How did Fordney know? Turn page for solution.