There was no doubt about it. With the car coming so close and Sergeant Gower leaning out to strike, Poole, in the part of Hessel, could not have failed to notice what had happened. “Can Hessel be in it?” muttered Poole. “Could he not have thrown a shtone, now?” asked Kelly. “That would let the car be further off and the man not so visible.” “We can try it,” said Poole. “But it’ll be harder than ever to make a good shot. What shall we throw?” “Not a stone, sir, please,” begged Rawton. “You _might_ make a good shot by mistake.” “Nobody’s got a tennis ball, I suppose?” queried Poole. Nobody had. “Would this do, guv’nor?” A small crowd, consisting of P. C. Lolling’s relief and a City of Westminster street scavenger had by this time collected. Poole had not noticed the latter till he spoke. The man was holding in the palm of his hand what looked like a long, rounded stone, shaped rather like a shot-gun cartridge, but shorter. Poole picked it out of the man’s hand and found that it was made of rubber but was distinctly heavy; close inspection proved that it had a metal core, to one end of which was attached a very short fragment of thin cord. “What on earth’s this?” asked Poole. “It’s something I picked out of that very grating, sir. It’s my job to clear them and I often find things that have fallen through,” replied the man. “I was puzzled to know what it was and I kept it in my pocket in case anyone came along and asked about it.” “You found it here? When, man, when?” “Matter of a fortnight ago, sir. The night after that poor gentleman died.” CHAPTER XIX The Ethiopian and General Development Company “Good God; it’s a bullet—a rubber bullet!” “Weighted with lead!” “Phwat’ll the shtring be for?” “What gun’ll fire a thing like that—look at the size of it—it’s bigger than a twelve-bore!” “How could that kill a man?” “Bust his artery, they said.” “I don’t believe it.” “It’s a fact.” “A bloody shame it is.” “Bloody clever I call it.” The burst of excited comments, by no means separate and consecutive, that followed the scavenger’s revelation was checked by Poole. “That’ll do,” he said. “We don’t want all London here. I’ll do the talking about this—and the thinking.” Poole sent the police-car, with Detective-Constables Kelley and Rawton in it, back to Scotland Yard, keeping Sergeant Gower with him. He questioned the scavenger, whose name was Glant, closely on the subject of his discovery. The man was positive that he had found the bullet in the sump below the grating close to where they stood,—under the curb exactly between the island and the spot where Sir Garth fell. The grating had an unusually open mesh and the bullet—Poole tested the point—could just drop through. Glant fixed the date clearly enough by the excitement of having a death practically on his beat; he had not connected the two in the sense of cause and effect but merely as the one fixing the date of the other.