Lord Darcy helped himself from the buffet table and allowed the Countess to pour him a large cup of hot tea. He mentioned nothing about the recent death. Instead, he turned the conversation toward the wild beauty of Scotland and the excellence of the grouse shooting there. Father Bright had not sat down again. Instead, he left the room once more. When he returned, he went directly to the Countess and said, in a low, but clearly audible voice: "My lady, Sir Pierre Morlaix has informed me that there are a few matters that require your attention immediately. It will require only a few moments." My lady the Countess did not hesitate, but made her excuses immediately. "Do finish your tea," she added. "I don't think I shall be long." Lord Darcy knew the priest would not lie, and he wondered what sort of arrangement had been made with Sir Pierre. Not that it mattered except that Lord Darcy had hoped it would be sufficiently involved for it to keep the Countess busy for at least ten minutes. The conversation, interrupted but momentarily, returned to grouse. "I haven't done any shooting since my accident," said Laird Duncan, "but I used to enjoy it immensely. I still have friends up every year for the season." "What sort of weapon do you prefer for grouse?" Lord Darcy asked. "A one-inch bore with a modified choke," said the Scot. "I have a pair that I favor. Excellent weapons." "Of Scottish make?" "No, no. English. Your London gunsmiths can't be beat for shotguns." "Oh. I thought perhaps your lordship had had all your guns made in Scotland." As he spoke, he took the little pistol out of his coat pocket and put it carefully on the table. There was a sudden silence, then Laird Duncan said in an angry voice: "What is this? Where did you get that?" Lord Darcy glanced at Lady Duncan, who had turned suddenly pale. "Perhaps," he said coolly, "Lady Duncan can tell us." She shook her head and gasped. For a moment, she had trouble in forming words or finding her voice. Finally: "No. No. I know nothing. Nothing." But Laird Duncan looked at her oddly. "You do not deny that it is your gun, my lord?" Lord Darcy asked. "Or your wife's, as the case may be." [Illustration] "_Where did you get it?_" There was a dangerous quality in the Scotsman's voice. He had once been a powerful man, and Lord Darcy could see his shoulder muscles bunching. "From the late Count D'Evreux's bedroom." "What was it doing there?" There was a snarl in the Scot's voice, but Lord Darcy had the feeling that the question was as much directed toward Lady Duncan as it was to himself. "One of the things it was doing there was shooting Count D'Evreux through the heart."