Under his head was a white silk
cushion, one of the cushions from the altar.
Muller stood looking down for some time at this poor victim of a
strange crime, then he turned to go.
He wanted to know one thing more: how the murderer had left the
crypt. The flame of his candle told him, for it nearly went out
in a gust of wind that came down the opening right above him. This
was a window about three or four feet from the floor, protected by
rusty iron bars which had been sawed through, leaving the opening
free. It was a small window, but it was large enough to allow a man
of much greater size than Muller to pass through it. The detective
blew out his candle and climbed up onto the window sill. He found
himself outside, in a corner of the churchyard. A thicket of heavy
bushes grown up over neglected graves completely hid the opening
through which he had come. There were thorns on these bushes and
also a few scattered roses, dark yellow roses.
Muller walked thoughtfully through the churchyard. The sexton sat
huddled in an unhappy heap at the gate. He looked up in alarm as he
saw the detective walking towards him.
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