He took it and looked at it, and then at Faradeane. Every eye was fastened on the tiny toy.
“Well? What has this to do with Mr. Faradeane?” demanded Lord Carfield.
“Yes, what has it to do——” echoed Bartley Bradstone, indignantly.
The constable glanced at him.
“If the squire will please to look at the pistol, he’ll see why I arrested the gentleman,” he said, stubbornly.
The squire held the revolver to the light, looked at it, and let it drop. It fell upon the tiled hall with an ominous clang, and Lord Carfield stooped and picked it up.
“That revolver has got Mr. Faradeane’s name engraved on it,” said the constable. “I asked him to explain—he’ll bear me out, squire—how it came there, just close to the body, and he wouldn’t tell me. There wasn’t nothing for it but for me to do my duty, and I did it. I told Mr. Faradeane he’d better come with me to you and my lord, the magistrates, and I advised him to clear the matter up, squire. Perhaps he’ll explain what he was doing there, and how his revolver happened to be lying beside the woman as was shot, my lord.”
Lord Carfield nodded.
“You did quite right,” he said. “Mr. Faradeane will explain, of course,” and he looked at him.
Every eye was fixed on him, every ear strained for his response to this appeal.