Anthony nodded in acquiescence. “I agree.” Then he broke out again. “Damn it all, Daventry, I’m certain I’m right in my conclusion—that bullet must be somewhere about. Take down the books on the top shelves—that’s the nearest height, I should say, to where Stewart would have fired—and start with the top shelf nearest to the switch.”
Peter somewhat reluctantly moved about three dozen volumes, tossing each one on to the floor as he did so. The woodwork at the back of the shelf was clean and unimpaired—no bullet had torn its destructive way through there. “Nothing here,” he declared over his shoulder to Anthony. But the latter was studying the books that Peter had just moved. One in particular seemed to be affording him particular interest. It was the thickest and bulkiest of them all.
“Come here, Daventry, will you?” said Anthony. Peter strolled across. Anthony pointed to a hole neatly drilled in the back of the cover. He opened the book at a page near the beginning. “There’s our bullet—embedded in this book. The thickness of the paper and the size of the book—848 pages to be exact—were sufficient to arrest its further progress—it was the only possible solution that remained to us.”
Peter Daventry gasped! “By Jove,” he muttered, “who’d have thought it?”
“Also, my dear Daventry,” remarked Mr. Bathurst, “let me call your attention to the title—‘The Memoirs of Réné de St. Maure—one-time Page to Mary Stuart.’ Altogether a most fascinating work, I should imagine.”
CHAPTER XVII.
The Memoirs of Réné de St. Maure
Anthony took out his pocket-knife and carefully extracted the bullet from its paper bed. “I think that Goodall will have little difficulty in fitting this to Stewart’s own revolver,” he declared. He turned to Peter. “It’s easier to piece the affair together now. When the burglar—the murderer if you prefer to call him so—cut across the room to put out the light he was holding this book in his hand—so.” He placed the fingers of his left hand on the switch and held the book in his right—with the back of the cover facing the door. Peter nodded—the scene was now becoming plainer to him, and its visualization most intriguing. “Stewart entered in the dark as I told you—and challenged the person he knew was facing him. At first he got no reply, but the intruder attempted to replace the book on its shelf in the bookcase at his side—he was familiar with its location because he had replaced it on many occasions before. Stewart detected the movement and instantly fired in the direction of the sound. Then the gentleman concerned so closely with historical research considered his safest plan was to disclose his identity—it might save his life for one thing. You know the result!”
“Wonderful—Bathurst!” said Peter. “I can see the whole thing as you depict it—there isn’t a weak link in your chain.”
Anthony flushed with pleasure. “A closer study of M. Réné will, I think, more than repay us for any little trouble we have taken”—he tapped the cover of the book playfully.
“I’ve been thinking, Bathurst,” said Peter, “if this book is so important, if, for example, it holds the key to the entire mystery, why on earth did the murderer leave it behind—especially as it held the tell-tale evidence of the bullet?”