“Not he,” replied Cyril. “He was just the opposite. He ate a first-class dinner, and we discussed the fools who made the run upon the bank. It seems that they weren't such fools after all--so I've been saying to Sir Percival.” “You are another of the imperfect logicians,” said Major Borrowdaile. “I want facts--not deductions, if you please. If there are to be any deductions made I prefer making them myself. I promise you that I shall make them on a basis of fact. Dr. Mitford saw our poor friend, and he has had, as you know, a large experience of bullet wounds--he went through four campaigns--and he declares that it is quite impossible that Mr. Westwood could have shot himself. The bullet entered the lungs from behind. Now, men who wish to commit suicide do not shoot themselves in that way. They have the best of reasons tor refraining. That is fact number one. Fact number two is that the revolver which was found at his hand was not Mr. Westwood's--his own revolver was found safe in his own bedroom.” “Then the deduction is simple,” said Sir Per-cival. “Some one must have shot him.” “I am afraid that is the only conclusion one can come to, considering the facts which I have placed before you, Sir Percival,” said Major Borrowdaile. “This view is strengthened by Mowbray's testimony as to the condition of Mr. Westwood last night: he was not depressed nor had he any reason to be depressed, the run upon the bank having been successfully averted.” “But who could have borne him a grudge? He was, I have always believed, the most popular man in the neighbourhood,” said Sir Percival. The Chief Constable glanced toward Cyril saying: “Perhaps Mowbray here will be able to give us at least a clue.” “I?--I know nothing of the matter,” said Cyril. “I have told you all that I know. We parted at the gate in the wall of the park--it saves me a round of more than half a mile--that's all I know, I assure you.” “Then I'm disappointed in my mission to you,” said the Chief Constable. “The fact is that one of the servants came to us with a singular story of a visitor--a man wearing a rather shabby coat and a soft hat. He says he entered the room when this man was having an altercation with Mr. Westwood, at which you were present, and the revolver”-- “Great Scott!” cried Cyril. “How could I be such an idiot as to forget that! The man came into the drawing-room through the open window, and called Dick a swindler. He pulled out a revolver and covered Dick with it just as the servant entered the room. Dick took the matter very coolly and the fellow threw the revolver out of the window, and walked out by the door himself--but not before he had threatened Dick. Oh, there can be no doubt about it; the shot was tired by that man.” “Did he mention what was his name?” asked Major Borrowdaile.