“It belongs to me,” he said simply. “I keep it in the drawer of the dressing-table in my bedroom. I suppose Sergeant Brace found it there.” “When did you last fire it?” “About a week ago. I found a poor beast of a cat in a trap in Smith’s field, just across the lane from me. It was past saving, so I went home and fetched this and shot it through the head.” “You have not used it since then?” “No. I haven’t had it out of the drawer since.” “Was any one present when you shot the cat?” “No. I was alone.” “Did you speak to anybody afterwards of what you had done?” “No. If I’d run across Smith I should probably have mentioned it to him, but I haven’t seen him.” “Was there any one who could have heard the shot?” “There might have been. Quite likely not. My man had gone home and Smith’s farm lies a good way back from the lane.” “Why did you hide the revolver at the back of the drawer?” Leslie coloured hotly. “I’ve never hidden it. The drawer’s full of mufflers and silk handkerchiefs and things and I keep it at the back for fear Mrs. Grey, who does my room, should get monkeying with it. She puts my handkerchiefs back when she brings them from the wash and I didn’t want to run any risk with the revolver.” “You persist in your statement that you did not return to the farm till eight o’clock?” “I went for a long walk, as I have said, and did not get back till close on eight. Hang it all, if I’d killed Mrs. Draycott do you suppose I’d have left my revolver in a drawer where any one could find it? Without cleaning it or reloading it either?” Leslie’s quick temper had got the better of him at last. “That is for the Jury to decide, Mr. Leslie,” said the Coroner. There was a sharp note of reproof in his voice and Fayre realized that, in a moment of irritation, Leslie had gone a long way towards effacing the good impression he had made in the beginning. “You have no explanation as to why Mrs. Draycott went to the farm?” “As I’ve already said, I didn’t know Mrs. Draycott. Why she should have gone there is a mystery to me.” Leslie went back to his seat to the accompaniment of a low murmur of voices, as the crowds composed mostly of his own friends and neighbours, exchanged their whispered comments on the unexpected turn the inquiry had taken. He was popular in the district and Fayre noticed that, in spite of the damning evidence the police had brought forward, there was little hostility, so far, in the faces that were turned so eagerly in Leslie’s direction. His heart sank when Cynthia was called. He had hoped that she might escape this ordeal. “Will you tell us in your own words exactly what happened on the evening of March 23rd?” said the Coroner. Cynthia’s colour was a little deeper, her eyes a trifle brighter, than usual; otherwise she showed no embarrassment at the position in which she found herself. “I met Mr. Leslie, as we had arranged, on the edge of the Galston copse . . .” she began.