“Oh? What’s the idea?”
For once in his life a curious reluctance seemed to have settled upon Roger. Almost nervously he cleared his throat, and when at last he did speak his voice was unwontedly grave.
“Well,” he said slowly, picking his words with care; “there’s a thing that nobody else seems to have noticed, but it’s been striking me more and more forcibly every minute. I tell you candidly it’s something rather horrible—a question that I’m honestly rather frightened of finding the answer to.”
“What are you driving at?” asked Alec in perplexity.
Roger hesitated again.
“Look here,” he said suddenly, “if you were going to shoot yourself, how would you go about it? Wouldn’t you do it like this?”
He raised his hand and pointed an imaginary revolver at a spot just above the right-hand end of his right eyebrow.
Alec copied his action. “Well, yes, I might. It seems the natural way to do it.”
“Exactly,” said Roger slowly. “Then why the devil is that wound in the centre of Stanworth’s forehead?”