“Quite immaterial what you believe,” said Blick, with well-assumed indifference. “We know it! Now, Mrs. Tretheroe, all this pretended concern of yours about von Eckhardstein’s being lost through some accident is all pretence! I tell you we know things. Now, you haven’t been candid with us up to now, and you’re running into serious danger. Out with it, Mrs. Tretheroe! You know very well that von Eckhardstein left your house at a late hour the other night—intentionally? Where is he now?” He waited with secret impatience, doubting even then if his fish would rise. But Mrs. Tretheroe, after an almost terrified glance at the Chief Constable’s stern face, spoke, faintly. “I believe—in Paris!” “How did he get away from here?” demanded Blick. “He waited till all was quiet, then walked across to Carfant, and got a motor-car to run him along the coast-road to Newhaven, to catch the early morning boat for Dieppe.” “Why did he go away like that?” “He said,” answered Mrs. Tretheroe, in a very low voice, “because he didn’t want to be mixed up in the sordid details of a vulgar murder, and he’d go across to the Continent until you’d got the real man and the thing was settled.” Blick got up, and silently motioned his companion to follow. Mrs. Tretheroe rose, too, white and trembling. “You—you don’t think he killed Guy?” she whispered. “You surely don’t say he did?” “At present—we say nothing,” answered Blick, and went away. But once outside the Dower House he turned to the Chief Constable. “Worked like a charm!” he muttered. “Well—what next?” Then he remembered the gunsmith at Selcaster and hurried back there in the Chief Constable’s dogcart. The gunsmith met him as he turned in at his shop-door, and drew him aside. “I’ve found out about that automatic pistol for you,” he whispered. “We did sell it! About three months ago. We sold it to Mr. Harry Markenmore, of Markenmore Court. Like to see the entry?” CHAPTER XX VILLAGE GOSSIP The Chief Constable had followed close upon Blick’s heels when the detective walked into the gunsmith’s shop, and he caught the whispered information. Not as accustomed as Blick was to reserve of speech and stolidity of expression he let out a word of surprise, scarcely checked. But Blick said nothing, and his only sign was one of assent to the gunsmith’s proposition: together the three men went to the back of the shop, where a sharp looking young man was busy with account books. “My manager, Mr. Waters,” said the gunsmith. “Waters—just show these gentlemen that entry we looked up a while ago.” Waters produced a day-book, turned over its pages, ran his fingers over the lines, and silently pointed to an entry and some figures. Blick glanced at them. “You remember selling a Webley-Fosbery automatic pistol to Mr. Harry Markenmore?” he asked, turning to the manager. “I mean—you sold it, personally?” “I sold it,” assented Waters. “I remember it well enough. He wanted a revolver—I recommended that.”