_“Nom d’un bon petit homme gris!”_ he almost squealed, “why did you whip out that infernal revolver? You spoiled everything, everything! Have you no sense in that picturesque head of yours? Your skull is big enough to hold brains, not soap-bubbles.” “Did your French father marry a Jap?” inquired Hart, with sudden interest. “And now you’re insulting my mother,” yelped the detective. “Not I. You know nothing about the finest race of little women in the world, or you would not even imagine such rubbish.” “But why, why, didn’t you tell me that you saw someone outside?” “You wouldn’t have believed me. The goblin was disappearing. I had to shoot quick.” “Why shoot at all?” “Sir, there are certain manifestations I object to on principle. What self-respecting ghost ever wore whiskers?” “This was no ghost. You shot the man’s hat off.” “Then what the blazes are you growling at? Had I, in blood-curdling whisper, told you that once again there was a face at the window, you would have scoffed at me. The ill-looking scamp caught my eye after his first glance at Grant. He was mizzling when I fired. You would have sat there and argued about hypnosis, with our worthy author’s skilled support. And there would have been no hat! I do an admirable bit of trick shooting, yet I am only reviled for my dexterity. Really, Charles François!” “Ah! You remember, at last,” and the detective smiled sourly. “_Parfaitement_! as they say in Paris, where you and I met once, though ’twas in a crowd. But _I_ didn’t steal the blessed pearl. I believe it was that blatant patriot, Domengo Suarez.” “You’ve got _some_ brains, then. Why not use them? Don’t you see what a fix we three would have found ourselves in had you shot the man?” “But, consider, Carlo mio! A spook with whiskers! What court would find me guilty? Let me produce the authentic record of Owd Ben, and I have no doubt but that the Lord Chief Justice himself would have potted his representative. He’d be bound to confess it.” Furneaux was cooling down. “You’ve shaken my confidence,” he said. “Unless I have your promise that you will never do such a thing again while in my company, I shall ban you from this inquiry with bell, book, and candle.” “Very well. It’s a bargain. Now let us ponder Exhibit A.” He stretched a long arm over the table, and took the hat. “Put it on!” commanded the detective. Hart did so, and scowled frightfully. Furneaux bent forward and squinted. “Notice the line of those bullet-holes,” he said to Grant. “Any man wearing that hat must have had his scalp ploughed up,” said Grant instantly. “Well, we know that nothing of the kind happened. Why?” “It was perched on top of a wig,” drawled Hart. Furneaux was slightly disappointed—there was no denying it. Being a vain little person, he liked to show off in a minor matter such as this. “Yes,” he admitted, “and what’s the corollary?”