“I once knew a case—possibly I read of it—where a pack of cards lay on the floor. It was a murder case and the guilt or innocence of an accused man depended on the relative positions of the fifty-first and fifty-second cards.”
“I think you must have read of that, sir,” replied Brewster, endeavouring to implicate first Miss Whitmarsh and then Parkinson in his meaning smile. “However, this is straightforward enough.”
“Then, of course, you have not thought it worth while to look for anything else?”
“I have noted all the facts that have any bearing on the case. Were you referring to any particular point, sir?”
“I was only wondering,” suggested Carrados, with apologetic mildness, “whether you, or anyone, had happened to find a wad lying about anywhere.”
The sergeant stroked his well-kept moustache to hide the smile that insisted, however, on escaping through his eyes.
“Scarcely, sir,” he replied, with fine irony. “Bulleted revolver cartridges contain no wad. You are thinking of a shot-gun, sir.”
“Oh,” said Carrados, bending over the spent cartridge he was examining, “that settles it, of course.”
“I think so, sir,” assented the sergeant, courteously but with a quiet enjoyment of the situation. “Well, miss, I’ll be getting back now. I think I have everything I want.”
“You will excuse me a few minutes?” said Miss Whitmarsh, and the two callers were left alone.