Mr. Murch shook his head. “There isn’t really much to lay hold of about the revolver, when you come to think. That particular make of revolver is common enough in England. It was introduced from the States. Half the people who buy a revolver today for self-defence or mischief provide themselves with that make, of that calibre. It is very reliable, and easily carried in the hip-pocket. There must be thousands of them in the possession of crooks and honest men. For instance,” continued the inspector with an air of unconcern, “Manderson himself had one, the double of this. I found it in one of the top drawers of the desk downstairs, and it’s in my overcoat pocket now.” “Aha! so you were going to keep that little detail to yourself.” “I was,” said the inspector; “but as you’ve found one revolver, you may as well know about the other. As I say, neither of them may do us any good. The people in the house—” Both men started, and the inspector checked his speech abruptly, as the half-closed door of the bedroom was slowly pushed open, and a man stood in the doorway. His eyes turned from the pistol in its open case to the faces of Trent and the inspector. They, who had not heard a sound to herald this entrance, simultaneously looked at his long, narrow feet. He wore rubber-soled tennis shoes. “You must be Mr. Bunner,” said Trent. Chapter VI. Mr. Bunner on the Case “Calvin C. Bunner, at your service,” amended the newcomer, with a touch of punctilio, as he removed an unlighted cigar from his mouth. He was used to finding Englishmen slow and ceremonious with strangers, and Trent’s quick remark plainly disconcerted him a little. “You are Mr. Trent, I expect,” he went on. “Mrs. Manderson was telling me a while ago. Captain, good-morning.” Mr. Murch acknowledged the outlandish greeting with a nod. “I was coming up to my room, and I heard a strange voice in here, so I thought I would take a look in.” Mr. Bunner laughed easily. “You thought I might have been eavesdropping, perhaps,” he said. “No, sir; I heard a word or two about a pistol—this one, I guess—and that’s all.” Mr. Bunner was a thin, rather short young man with a shaven, pale, bony, almost girlish face, and large, dark, intelligent eyes. His waving dark hair was parted in the middle. His lips, usually occupied with a cigar, in its absence were always half open with a curious expression as of permanent eagerness. By smoking or chewing a cigar this expression was banished, and Mr. Bunner then looked the consummately cool and sagacious Yankee that he was.