"Why, you don't imagine that he would go so far as to shoot himself just to avert suspicion," I asked, still incredulous.
Forrest drew himself up smartly. "Good Lord! What a fool I am! What—a—blind—dunderheaded—jackass!" he cried.
"What's the matter now?" I inquired smiling, for the detective was groping in his pockets. "Have you lost anything?"
From his waistcoat pocket he produced a small leaden bullet, and he held it outstretched in the palm of his hand.
"Here have I been wasting weeks on the continent, while with this I might have settled the matter once and for all."
"How?" I asked.
"I needed but to compare this with the bullet the surgeon extracted from Mannering's shoulder. This is the one which killed the poor fellow near Towcester. If Mannering's bullet is identical with this, I should have nothing more to say; but," he continued meaningly, "both your revolver and mine are of a different calibre to the weapon which fired this. If the bullet which hit Mannering should prove to fit either of our weapons, there would be no need to seek for further evidence. I must see that surgeon at once."
He started off rapidly down the garden path. I hurried after him and laid my hand on his arm.
"Steady, old man," I remarked. "You can hardly knock up a hardworked medical man at 3.30 a.m. just to ask him a question."