Lambert laughed, but was saved the trouble of a reply by the return of Garvington, who trotted in to lay a mahogany case on the table. Opening this, he took out a small revolver of beautiful workmanship. Chaldea, desperately anxious to bring home the crime to Lambert, hastily snatched the weapon from the little man's hand and slipped the bullet into one of the chambers. It fitted—making allowance for its battered condition—precisely. She uttered a cry of triumph. "So you did shoot the Romany, my bold one," was her victorious speech.
"Because the bullet fits the barrel of a revolver I gave to my cousin some twelve months ago?" he inquired, smiling.
Chaldea's face fell. "Twelve months ago!" she echoed, greatly disappointed.
"Yes, as Lord Garvington can swear to. So I could not have used the weapon on that night, you see."
"I used it," admitted Garvington readily enough. "And winged Pine."
"Exactly. But I gave you a brace of revolvers of the same make. The bullet which would fit one—as it does—would fit the other. I see there is only one in the case. Where is the other?"
Garvington's color changed and he shuffled with his feet. "I lent it to Silver," he said in a low voice, and reluctantly.
"Was it in Silver's possession on the night Pine was shot?"
"Must have been. He borrowed it a week before because he feared burglars."
"Then," said Lambert coolly, and drawing a breath of relief, for the tension had been great, "the inference is obvious. Silver shot Hubert Pine."