Then, with a sigh, he relaxed.
“That’s odd,” he said. “How do you account for this?”
He held out the pistol. It was a small, dainty article, almost a toy—though capable of doing deadly work. Engraved on it was the name Virginia.
“Oh, it’s impossible!” cried Virginia.
Her astonishment was so genuine that Anthony could but believe in it.
“Sit down,” he said quietly. “There’s more in this than there seemed to be first go off. To begin with, what’s our hypothesis? There are only two possible ones. There is, of course, the real Virginia of the letters. She may have somehow or other tracked him down, shot him, dropped the pistol, stolen the letters, and taken herself off. That’s quite possible, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Virginia unwillingly.
“The other hypothesis is a good deal more interesting. Whoever wished to kill Giuseppe, wished also to incriminate you—in fact that may have been their main object. They could get him easily enough anywhere, but they took extraordinary pains and trouble to get him here, and whoever they were they knew all about you, your cottage at Datchet, your usual household arrangements, and the fact that you were at Ranelagh this afternoon. It seems an absurd question, but have you any enemies, Mrs. Revel?”
“Of course I haven’t—not that kind, anyway.”
“The question is,” said Anthony, “what are we going to do now? There are two courses open to us. A: Ring up the police, tell the whole story, and trust to your unassailable position in the world and your hitherto blameless life. B: An attempt on my part to dispose successfully of the body. Naturally my private inclinations urge me to B. I’ve always wanted to see if I couldn’t conceal a crime with the necessary cunning, but have had a squeamish objection to shedding blood. On the whole, I expect A’s the soundest. Then there’s a sort of bowdlerized A. Ring up the police, etc., but suppress the pistol and the blackmailing letters—that is, if they are on him still.”