Alec started, and his broad, good-humoured face paled a little.
“Good Lord!” he ejaculated in startled tones. “What on earth do you mean?”
“Simply what I say,” returned Roger. “Why did Stanworth go out of his way to shoot himself in such a remarkably difficult manner? Don’t you see what I mean? It isn’t natural.”
Alec was staring up the drive. “Isn’t it? But he did it all right, didn’t he?”
“Oh, of course he did it,” said Roger in a voice that was curiously lacking in conviction. “But what I can’t understand is this. Why, when he could have done it so easily, did he go about it in such a roundabout way? I mean, a revolver isn’t such an easy thing to manipulate unhandily; and the attitude he used must have twisted his wrist most uncomfortably. Just try pointing your forefinger in a straight line at the middle of your forehead, and you’ll see what I mean.”
He suited his action to his words, and there was no doubt about the constraint of his attitude. Alec looked at him attentively.
“Yes, it does look awkward,” he commented.
“It is. Infernally awkward. And you saw where the doctor took the bullet from. Almost at the very back. That means the revolver must have been nearly in a dead straight line. You try and see how difficult it is. It almost dislocates your elbow.”
Alec copied the action. “You’re quite right,” he said with interest. “It is uncomfortable.”
“I should call it more than that. It’s so unnatural as to be highly improbable. Yet there’s the fact.”