Bridge went hunting over some shelves, and then he took to excavating in drawers--opened a safe, dug under dusty piles of papers, and suddenly produced (Bess never saw from where) a small box in which something rattled. When he opened this there were three conical bullets and one fat round one. "Ah," cried Bess, "there it is. Try! please try Mr. Inspector."
"All in good time Miss," said the aggravating Bridge, and dropped the bullet into the muzzle. It disappeared, and he nodded solemnly. "It is the pistol," he said, "you have made a valuable discovery Miss. If there was only a name or initials on the handle," he sighed.
Bess was not attending to him. She took the pistol and dropped out the bullet; then rammed it home again, and nodded in her turn. "There is no doubt of it," she said, "this the pistol that shot Colonel Carr."
"Will you leave it with me Miss?" asked Bridge, "I might find out something likely to lead to the detection of the assassin."
Bess laughed delightedly. From that last phrase she knew that Inspector Bridge had been reading detective fiction of the worst. She knew also that the pistol would afford no clue to the truth until it was in capable hands. Therefore as she thought it would be safer in the Beorminster police office than in the untidy house of Biffstead where everybody was always turning over everybody else's drawers she consented that Bridge should take charge of it. The Inspector with an important air put away the pistol in his safe. He was about to replace the box, when he noticed that Bess had the round bullet in her hand.
"Come Miss give it back?" he said. "Belongs to the Crown that does."
"A queer bullet," murmured Bess, "made in a mould. Here is the seam. I do not believe it is lead. It is too hard for lead. Have you a pen-knife Mr. Inspector? Ah," she seized one lying on the desk, "this will do. I don't believe this is lead."
"Nonsense," said Bridge crossly, "all bullets are made of lead."
"This is not," cried Bess who was scratching away vigorously. "See how hard it is. And the scratches shine. Inspector Bridge," she said in a solemn tone, "I believe this is silver."
"It can't be." The Inspector took it up and examined it in his turn. What Bess said was true. The bullet was hard, not soft as lead should be, and moreover it was hard to scratch, and the little scraping she had given it glittered in parts just like silver. "It might be," murmured Bridge.