“Does that seem odd to you, or not?” inquired Hannasyde.
“It does,” said Giles. “Roger in the act of paying a bill seems more than odd to me.”
“In some ways you are very like your cousins,” said Hannasyde tartly.
“Interrupted,” said the Sergeant, in his turn reading the note. “Stands to reason he wouldn't want anything sent him if he meant to commit suicide. Something might have happened to make him do it after the interruption, of course. You can't tell. But certainly he was interrupted. Say there's a ring at the door-bell, Super. He slips the letter into his blotter - or no! he has the blotter open, writing in it. All he does is to close it while he goes to see who's at the door. Sort of instinctive movement, if you follow me.”
“Yes, something like that,” Hannasyde said. “But we haven't heard Mr Carrington's third point yet.”
Giles, whose good-humoured countenance had grown rather grim, said:
“Are you a pistol-shot, Hannasyde?”
“No, I can't say I am.”
“So I should suppose. Your expert won't like that.” He pointed to the ground at his feet, where, half-hidden in the shaggy hearth-rug, a cartridge-case gleamed.
Both men looked down. “Yes, I'd already seen it,” Hannasyde said. “It's in the wrong place? Is that it?”