"Exactly," said Moore.
"Well," said the detective, "he either had no cartridges of his own handy, or else, like all criminals, however smart, he tripped—the brain of no man is capable of adjusting his actions precisely in every detail."
"Guess you're right. No man can be perfect in his reasoning, and, no matter how clever the criminal, he is almost certain to make an error sooner or later," said Moore.
"Yes, but it takes peculiar power to discover it," I chirped. The events of the day had tired me, and my mind was growing confused. I desired to go to bed.
Oakes smiled slightly. "No, Stone; it takes study, worry and patient reasoning to discover the faulty link in a clever criminal's logic—that is why there is a profession like mine."
I was half asleep, but I heard him continue: "We may consider we have excellent cause to look for a man who has in his possession an ancient revolver and some very old dirty cartridges covered with verdigris, like these here."
"Murder will out," I interpolated.
"Yes, eventually, sometimes. However, it is easy to say, 'he who had that revolver did the murder,' but as it may have been destroyed since then, or thrown into the river, it is another thing to find the man."
We were crestfallen. Oakes himself looked wearied.
"I wish the whole Mansion was in the river, and there were a decent cafè round here," protested Moore.