“This is a .38 calibre pistol,” he pointed out. “Same calibre as the cartridge-case we picked up on the rock, and probably the same as the bullet'll be when we get it from the body. I've examined the barrel; there's been a shot fired from it quite recently. I've looked into the magazine; it lacks one cartridge of a full load.” He paused dramatically before his final point. “And I found this pistol in the pocket of the woman Fleetwood's golf-blazer which was hanging on her peg in the lady golfers' dressing-room.” After another pause, meant to let the fact sink home in Wendover's mind, Armadale added: “You'll admit, sir, that a toy of this sort is hardly the kind of thing an ordinary lady carries about with her.” Wendover thought he saw his way now, and he prepared to spring his mine. “Let's be quite clear about this, inspector. I take it that you went into that ladies' dressing-room, hunted around for Mrs. Fleetwood's coat-peg, and found the blazer hanging on it and the shoes lying on the floor below.” “Exactly, sir. Mrs. Fleetwood's card was there, marking the peg. I'd no difficulty.” Wendover made no attempt to repress the smile which curved his lips. “Just so, inspector. Anyone else could have found the things just as easily. They were lying there, open to anyone; not even a key to turn in order to pick them up. And after dark that dressing-room is left very much to itself. No one goes there except by accident.” In his turn he paused before launching his attack. Then he added: “In fact, some other woman might have gone there instead of Mrs. Fleetwood; worn her shoes and her blazer; and misled you completely. Anyone could take the blazer from its peg and the shoes from the floor, inspector. Your evidence is all right up to a point, I admit; but it doesn't incriminate the owner of the articles, since they were accessible to anybody at that time of night.” Wendover had expected to see a downfall of the Inspector's pride; but instead, Armadale's face showed clearly that the shot had missed its mark. With a slight gesture, the inspector drew Wendover's eyes to the pistol. “There are some fingerprints on this—quite clear ones, sir. I've dusted them, and they're perfectly good as a means of identification.” “But you don't suppose Mrs. Fleetwood will let you take her fingerprints if they're going to tell against her, do you?” Armadale's face showed the pleasure which he felt in having forestalled criticism. He gingerly replaced the pistol in some receptacle in his bag, and then drew out, with all precaution, a table-knife which Wendover recognised as the pattern used in the hotel. “This is the knife that the woman Fleetwood used to-day at lunch. The waiter who served her was told to keep it for me—he brought it on the plate without handling it. When I dusted it some of her fingerprints came up, of course. They're identical with those on the pistol. Any reply to that, sir?”