“Yes,” he said, “that’s fair. I suppose I ought. But there’s not much to tell, Bruce. Just before Hartley Parrish was found dead, I asked Miss Trevert to marry me. I was too late. She was already engaged to Hartley Parrish. I was horrified ... I know some things about Parrish ... we had words and I went off. Five minutes later Miss Trevert went to fetch Parrish in to tea and heard a shot behind the locked door of the library. Horace Trevert got in through the window and found Parrish dead. Every one down at Harkings believes that I went in and threatened Parrish so that he committed suicide ...” “Whom do you mean by every one?” Robin laughed drily. “Mary Trevert, her mother, Horace Trevert ...” “The police, too?” “Certainly. The police more than anybody!” “By Jove!” commented the boy. “You ask me what I suspect,” Robin continued. “I admit I have no positive proof. But I suspect that Hartley Parrish did not die by his own hand!” Bruce Wright looked up with a startled expression on his face. “You mean that he was murdered?” “I do!” “But how? Why?” Then Robin told him of the experiment in the library, of the open window and of the bullet mark he had discovered in the rosery. “What I want to know,” he said, “and what I am determined to find out beyond any possible doubt, is whether the bullet found in Hartley Parrish’s body was fired from _his_ pistol. But before we reach that point we have to explain how it happened that only one shot was heard and how a bullet which _apparently_ came from Parrish’s pistol was found in his body ...” “If Mr. Parrish was murdered, the murderer might have turned the gun round in Parrish’s hand and forced him to shoot himself ...” “Hardly,” said Robin. “Remember, Mary Trevert was at the door when the shot was fired. Your theory presupposes the employment of force, in other words, a struggle. Miss Trevert heard no scuffling. No, I’ve thought of that.. it won’t do ...” “Have you any suspicion of who the murderer might be?” Robin shook his head decidedly. “Not a shadow of an idea,” he affirmed positively. “But I have a notion that we shall find a clue in this letter which, like a blithering fool, I left on Parrish’s desk. It’s the first glimmer of hope I’ve seen yet ...” Bruce Wright squared his shoulders and threw his head back. “I’ll get it for you,” he said. “Good boy,” said Robin. “But, Bruce,” he went on, “you’ll have to go carefully. My name is mud in that house. You mustn’t say you come from me. And if you ask boldly for the letter, they won’t give it to you. Jeekes might, if he’s there and you approach him cautiously. But, for Heaven’s sake, don’t try any diplomacy on Manderton ... that’s the Scotland Yard man. He’s as wary as a fox and sharp as needles.” Bruce Wright buttoned up his coat with an air of finality. “Leave it to me,” he said, “I know Harkings like my pocket. Besides I’ve got a friend there ...” “Who might that be?” queried the barrister.