“Where’s that revolver you mentioned, Clegg—let’s have a look at it.” The Sergeant took it from the right-hand drawer of the desk. “This was in Mr. Stewart’s left-hand pocket,” he declared—“and one shot has been fired.” He passed it across to the Inspector. “That’s not to say it was fired at the time of the murder,” rejoined his superior. “All the evidence you’ve collected is absolutely contrary.” “You mean that nobody admits having heard it?” intervened Anthony. “I do,” said Goodall. “With your permission, Inspector—not quite the same thing,” came the reply. Goodall fingered his cheek. “No sign of the bullet, Mr. Bathurst, if you’re suggesting that a shot was fired in here.” Clegg smiled broadly. There was no gainsaying the Inspector’s last remark. Anthony shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly and went back to the desk again. Peter noticed that his eyes were sweeping backwards and forwards over that particular part of it directly in front of where Stewart’s head had rested. Suddenly he picked up the ink-bowl and held it up carefully to the light. He swirled the ink round and round in the bowl three or four times and watched its black eddy with the greatest keenness. Apparently what he saw gave him entire satisfaction—which his face showed when he replaced the ink-bowl on the desk. He rubbed the palms of his hands together. “You were quite right, Inspector, regarding your theory of the crime. I hope to put my hand on the——” “Criminal, Mr. Bathurst?” broke in Charles Stewart. “What makes you so optimistic?” “No! I was about to say ‘on the weapon,’ Mr. Stewart. But the other will naturally follow.” “I’m rather curious to follow you, Mr. Bathurst,” said Goodall. He walked to the desk and picked up the ink-bowl. “Ah!” he muttered, after a moment—“I think I see your drift.” He nodded his head two or three times—then came back to Charles Stewart again. “I’m going into the garden for a few moments—when I return I should like to see Miss Lennox and Mr. Llewellyn, your father’s secretary. Perhaps you would be good enough to tell them.” He passed through the French doors—the indefatigable Clegg at his heels. Anthony and Peter watched them go through the rockery and disappear out of sight. “Where’s he gone now?” questioned Peter. “He’s bound to have a look outside,” was Anthony’s reply. “He may pick up the O’Connor information—he should do—he’s a pretty shrewd fellow.”