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II
“You recognize this, Sir Henry?”
Inspector Grange laid the revolver on the desk in front of Sir Henry and looked at him
expectantly.
“I can handle it?” Sir Henry’s hand hesitated over the revolver as he asked the question.
Grange nodded. “It’s been in the pool. Destroyed whatever fingerprints there were on it. A pity,
if I may say so, that Miss Savernake let it slip out of her hand.”
“Yes, yes—but of course it was a very tense moment for all of us. Women are apt to get
flustered and—er—drop things.”
Again Inspector Grange nodded. He said:
“Miss Savernake seems a cool, capable young lady on the whole.”
The words were devoid of emphasis, yet something in them made Sir Henry look up sharply.
Grange went on:
“Now, do you recognize it, sir?”
Sir Henry picked up the revolver and examined it. He noted the number and compared it with a
list in a small leather-bound book. Then, closing the book with a sigh, he said:
“Yes, Inspector, this comes from my collection here.”
“When did you see it last?”
“Yesterday afternoon. We were doing some shooting in the garden with a target, and this was
one of the firearms we were using.”
“Who actually fired this revolver on that occasion?”
“I think everybody had at least one shot with it.”
“Including Mrs. Christow?”
“Including Mrs. Christow.”
“And after you had finished shooting?”
“I put the revolver away in its usual place. Here.”
He pulled out the drawer of a big bureau. It was half-full of guns.
“You’ve got a big collection of firearms, Sir Henry.”
“It’s been a hobby of mine for many years.”
Inspector Grange’s eyes rested thoughtfully on the ex-Governor of the Hollowene Islands. A
good- looking, distinguished man, the kind of man he would be quite pleased to serve under
himself—in fact, a man he would much prefer to his own present Chief Constable. Inspector
Grange did not think much of the Chief Constable of Wealdshire—a fussy despot and a tuft-
hunter. He brought his mind back to the job in hand.
“The revolver was not, of course, loaded when you put it away, Sir Henry?”
“Certainly not.”
“And you keep your ammunition—where?”
“Here.” Sir Henry took a key from a pigeonhole and unlocked one of the lower drawers of the
desk.
“Simple enough,” thought Grange. The Christow woman had seen where it was kept. She’d
only got to come along and help herself. Jealousy, he thought, plays the dickens with women.
He’d lay ten to one it was jealousy. The thing would come clear enough when he’d finished the
routine here and got on to the Harley Street end. But you’d got to do things in their proper order.
He got up and said:
“Well, thank you, Sir Henry. I’ll let you know about the inquest.”
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