“You’ve let her down rather lightly, haven’t you, Mr. Coldwell?” He gave her a quick sidelong glance. “Minnow fishing never did appeal to me,” he drawled, “especially while one of the big pikes is hovering around, and it’s the pike I’m after. And if this minnow doesn’t lead me to him, I’ll be astonished.” “You accept Peter Dawlish’s story?” He nodded, as he helped her into the cab. When he had followed and had slammed the rackety door and the machine was in motion, he explained. “The detective who searched the house last night found that loose board and the hole underneath. He might have missed the diamond rings, but he couldn’t have missed the gun. Therefore I knew it had been planted since. Peter might have put it there, of course, but the odds were all against that theory. The true story was the one told by the child. The little yellow-faced gentleman was probably one of the three who attacked Dawlish.” For the first time she learned of that surprising outrage which had been committed in Severall Street the night Peter had visited her. He admitted a little irritably that the case had gone outside his own experience. “Here’s a woman who has been masquerading as a man for the past fifteen years, found dead, with an emerald in her hand, worth, at a rough guess, a thousand pounds. She was shot at close quarters with the pistol I have in my pocket----” She gasped. “You don’t mean that?” He nodded. “I do mean it. I’d like to bet a month’s pay that I’m right. You think a murderer would be crazy to put the very weapon in the hands of the police, knowing that the pistol has a number and its purchase can be traced--unless it was bought in Belgium, which is extremely likely. You haven’t seen Druze since she was found, have you? Well, I’m not advising you to; all the details about her can be passed on. There’s a big black-powder burn at the base of her right thumb, that is to say on the back of her hand. First thing I noticed when I examined the body was that powder burn.” “How did that come there?” asked Leslie. “She fired an automatic--five or six shots in rapid succession--and got the backfire. One shot wouldn’t have burned her; it must have been at least five. Look!” He showed his own hand, and a raw red mark, faintly tinged with black. “I was firing an automatic this morning to see what would happen, and I’ve got exactly the same mark as she has. I’m only making a guess, Leslie, but my guess is that Miss or Mrs. Druze was killed in self-defense; that she started the gunplay and got the worst of it.” Leslie caught her breath. “Then where is the other body?” she asked quickly. He stared at her open-mouthed. “Other body?” “She killed somebody first,” said Leslie quickly. “Killed or desperately wounded. Such a woman as Druze would not carry a pistol unless she knew how to use it. If she knew how to use it and fired first, then somebody was badly hurt.” The old man took off his hat and scratched his head.