There was no mark of car wheels, and the bushes behind which the man was found showed no evidence of crushing. It might have been an ordinary case of suicide, and the doctor ventured this opinion. A revolver had been found near the body. He must have been shot with the muzzle almost touching his coat, for it was burnt. “We haven’t got the number of the revolver, but we are making enquiries about it. I don’t think they are necessary. It will be a day or two before we can trace it. Did you get that gun?” One of the waiting detectives took it out of his pocket. It was a small six-chambered Colt. One of the detectives who had been on guard over the body when they arrived offered a piece of information. “There is an initial scratched on the back plate of the butt,” he said. “F.S.” He took the weapon from his pocket and passed it across to Gaylor. “F.S.,” frowned the inspector. “That’s a pretty common initial.” “Frank Seafield, for example,” said Mr. Reeder, and Gaylor gaped at him. “Why should it be Seafield? That’s wildly improbable, Reeder.” However, when they returned to town and Mr. Reeder got into communication with Seafield’s late partner, Gaylor found that the surmise was not so wild. Tommy Anton called at Scotland Yard and saw and identified the weapon. “That’s Frank’s,” he said immediately. “He always carried a revolver. I used to chaff him about it. He had no reason to, so far as I know, and I rather think that carrying the gun was a bit of swank. He was a little on the theatrical side.” Joan Ralph had gone back to Bishop’s Stortford. They reached her by telephone. She too had seen the revolver and described it accurately. “I know Frank carried it, and Daddy used to be very sarcastic about it. Frank used to carry big sums of money about the country, buying second-hand cars, and he said he had to deal with some very tough people. Why do you want to know?” Mr. Reeder, who had no desire to alarm the young lady, lied gracefully. “That beats me,” said Gaylor. Mr. Reeder put down the phone. They were sitting in the inspector’s room at Scotland Yard, where a meal had been brought to them from a neighbouring restaurant. “It doesn’t beat me, possibly because I am over sanguine,” said Mr. Reeder, “possibly because my peculiar mentality leads me astray.” “But suppose it is suicide--” began Gaylor, and stopped. “You were thinking that it is quite usual that a suicide tries to remove all marks of his identification?” said Mr. Reeder. “That is perfectly true. Will you tell me this: why is the suit he was wearing so old and stained and shabby, and why was he wearing slippers?” “Boots,” Gaylor broke in. “Elastic-sided boots.” “Slippers,” insisted Mr. Reeder. “And why was there no mud on them? And why was the front of him wet and the back on which he lay almost dry? It rained all last night and he could not have walked through the forest without getting soaked to the skin?”