“Don't be a goop!” he besought her. “They'd have to have a nerve, snooping round the house looking for a stray rifle! Come on, we must push off!”
“But I like that theory,” said Gavin. “It brings Mavis Warrenby back into the picture, and she was one of my first fancies. Try as I will—not that I would have you think I've tried very hard—I can't believe in so much saintliness. You ought to have seen her after church this morning! Such a brave little woman, nobly doing her best to bear up under heavy sorrow! A schoolboy's gun would have been just the thing for her. Oh, I must go home, and work on this new theory!”
“I would,” said Hemingway cordially. “You might tell me before you go whether you've got a .22 rifle as well as Mr. Haswell?”
“I haven't the least idea, but I should think very probably. I don't shoot myself, but my half-brother had several sporting guns. Would you like to come and see for yourself?”
“Thank you, I would, sir,” said Hemingway, getting up. “No harm in making sure, and no time like the present. You two can wait here for me,” he added, to his subordinates. “I shan't be long. I understand you live quite close, don't you, sir?”
“A hundred yards up the street,” Gavin answered, pulling himself out of his chair with one of his awkward movements, and limping across the floor.
Outside the inn, having parted from Charles and Abby, the Chief Inspector set a moderate pace, and was rewarded for his consideration with a snap. “Let me assure you that ungainly though my gait may be it does not necessitate my walking at a snail's pace!” said Gavin, an edge to his voice.
“That's good, sir,” said Hemingway. “A war-injury?”
“I took no part in the War. I was born with a short leg.”
“Very hard luck, sir.”