“What steps can I take, do you think? Send for another London detective—or for the same man again—and give him this pistol? To what end? He would be no nearer finding the murderer because of the finding of the pistol.” “The initials might lead to identification.” “Did you never hear of such a thing as a second-hand pistol? And do you think an assassin would make use of a pistol with his own initials upon it to commit murder? I do not.” “Not the professional assassin. But we are all agreed that this murder was an act of vengeance—for some reason at present unknown—and the semi-lunatic who would commit murder for such a motive would not be likely to do his work very neatly. His brain would be fevered by passion or alcohol, in all probability, and he would go to work blindly.” “That is no more than a theory, and my experience has shown me that such theories are generally falsified by fact. The murder was so far neatly done that the murderer got clear off, in spite of a most rigorous search. I doubt if the pistol, with initials which may belong to anybody in the world, will help us to track him after more than a year.” “Then you mean to do nothing in the matter?” “I think not. I cannot see my way to doing anything at present; but if you like to take the pistol to Scotland Yard and see what impression it makes upon the experts there——” “I should much like to do so. I cannot ignore the fact that so long as Sir Godfrey’s murderer remains undiscovered, there is a possibility of peril for you and for Juanita, and for Juanita’s child. Who can tell whether that deadly hatred is appeased—whether the man who killed your daughter’s husband is not on the watch to kill you or your daughter—when he sees his opportunity?” “As for myself, I must take my chance. I would to God that the ball had struck me instead of my son-in-law. It would have been better—a lighter chastisement. I have lived my life. I have done all I ever hoped to do in this world. A few years, more or less, could matter very little to me. And yet, life is sweet, Theodore, life is sweet! However heavily we are handicapped, we most of us would choose to finish our race.” There was infinite melancholy in his tone, the melancholy of a man who sees the shadows of a great despair darkening round him, the melancholy of a man who gives up the contest of life, and feels that he is beaten. “Do not say anything to my wife about this business,” he said; “let her be happy as long as she can. She has not forgotten last summer, but she is beginning to be something like what she was before that blow fell upon us. The advent of Juanita’s baby has worked wonders. There is something to look forward to in that child’s existence. Life is no longer a cul-de-sac.” “There is one thing to be done,” said Theodore, after an interval of silence. “The bullet was kept, of course.” “Yes, it is in the possession of the police, I believe.”