The sergeant came forward from the hall, carrying a cricket bag. This Inspector Aylesbury took from him, placing it upon the floor of the library at his feet. “New, sir,” said he, “I borrowed this bag in which to bring the evidence away--the hanging evidence which I discovered beneath the floor of the hut.” I had turned again, when the man had referred to his discovery; and now, glancing at Harley, I saw that his face had grown suddenly very stern. “Show me your evidence, Inspector?” he asked, shortly. “There can be no objection,” returned the Inspector. Opening the bag, he took out a rifle! Paul Harley’s hands were thrust in his coat pockets, By the movement of the cloth I could see that he had clenched his fists. Here was confirmation of my theory! “A Service rifle,” said the Inspector, triumphantly, holding up the weapon. “A Lee-Enfield charger-loader. It contains four cartridges, three undischarged, and one discharged. He had not even troubled to eject it.” The Inspector dropped the weapon into the bag with a dramatic movement. “Fancy theories about bat wings and Voodoos,” he said, scornfully, “may satisfy you, Mr. Harley, but I think this rifle will prove more satisfactory to the Coroner.” He picked up the bag and walked out of the library. Harley stood posed in a curiously rigid way, looking after him. Even when the door had closed he did not change his position at once. Then, turning slowly, he walked to an armchair and sat down. “Harley,” I said, hesitatingly, “has this discovery surprised you?” “Surprised me?” he returned in a low voice. “It has appalled me.” “Then, although you seemed to regard my theory as sound,” I continued rather resentfully, “all the time you continued to believe Colin Camber to be innocent?” “I believe so still.” “What?” “I thought we had determined, Knox,” he said, wearily, “that a man of Camber’s genius, having decided upon murder, must have arranged for an unassailable alibi. Very well. Are we now to leap to the other end of the scale, and to credit him with such utter stupidity as to place hanging evidence where it could not fail to be discovered by the most idiotic policeman? Preserve your balance, Knox. Theories are wild horses. They run away with us. I know that of old, for which very reason I always avoid speculation until I have a solid foundation of fact upon which to erect it.” “But, my dear fellow,” I cried, “was Camber to foresee that the floor of the hut would be taken up?” Harley sighed, and leaned back in his chair. “Do you recollect your first meeting with this man, Knox?” “Perfectly.” “What occurred?” “He was slightly drunk.” “Yes, but what was the nature of his conversation?” “He suggested that I had recognized his resemblance to Edgar Allan Poe.” “Quite. What had led him to make this suggestion?” “The manner in which I had looked at him, I suppose.”