He nodded to the rest of the company, said: “Night!” in a general way, and departed.
“Ought we to be going too, Charles? Your mother invited me for eight, and I don't want to keep her waiting,” said Abby, who, like most of her generation, had very good manners.
He glanced at his watch, and rose, “Yes, it's about time we pushed off,” he agreed. “I say, Chief Inspector, is it true that Warrenby was shot with a .22 rifle? Or oughtn't I to ask?”
“Oh, I don't mind your asking, sir! But you want to go and ask Sergeant Knarsdale, not me: he's the expert on ballistics.”
Charles laughed. “All right! But, if it's true, you've got the hell of a job on your hands, haven't you? Crowds of people have them here. I've got one myself. First gun my father ever gave me. I used to put rabbits with it.”
“Do you still use it, sir?”
“No, I haven't lately: too short in the stock for me now. My father had it altered for me when I was a kid, but it's knocking around somewhere.”
“Do you mean you don't know where it is?” demanded Abby.
He looked smilingly down at her. “Don't sound so accusing! It's either amongst my junk, or in the gunroom. If Mother didn't shove it up in the attics, with my old tramlines.”
“But don't you see?” exclaimed Abby, her eyes brightening. “Someone could have pinched it!”