“Like it?” Gavin asked.
“Yes, sir. Don't you?”
“Aesthetically, very much; sentimentally, a little; practically, not at all. The plumbing is archaic; the repairs—if I could undertake them—would be ruinous; and to run it properly a staff of at least three indoor servants is necessary. I have one crone, and a gardener-groom, who also does odd jobs.” He led the way up the flagged path to the front-door, and opened it. “The room my brother used, amongst other things, as his gunroom, is at the back,” he said, limping past the elegant staircase to a swing-door covered in moth-eaten brown baize. “Kitchen premises,” he said over his shoulder. “Here we are!” He opened a door, and signed to the Chief Inspector to enter. “A disgusting room!” he remarked. “It reeks of dogs, and always will. My brother's spaniels used to sleep in it. A revolting pair, gushingly affectionate, and wholly lacking in tact or discrimination! Guns over here.” He went to a glass-fronted case, and opened it. “Quite an armoury, as you perceive. Including a couple of hammer-guns, which must have belonged to my father. Yes, I thought Walter would probably have a .22. Take it, and do what you will with it!” He lifted it out of the case as he spoke, but paused before handing it to Hemingway, and said, with a twisted smile: “Oh, that was unworthy of the veriest tyro, wasn't it? Now I've left my fingerprints on it. That might be quite clever of me, mightn't it?”
“Not so very clever,” said Hemingway. “Something tells me that the gun I'm after won't have any prints on it at all. Mind if I borrow this, sir?”
“No, and much good would it do me if I did mind! Would you like to fire it into my marrow-bed? I expect we can find some ammunition for it.”
“Not. my department, sir,” Hemingway said, tucking the rifle under his arm. “I'm much obliged to you, though.”
He took his leave of Gavin on the doorstep, and found, when he stepped through the gate again, that the police-car was drawn up outside. He got into the back, beside Inspector Harbottle, and propped the rifle up between them. “Well, I'll say this for you, you're a zealous lot of chaps,” he remarked.
“Where do you wish to go now, sir?” asked Harbottle severely.
“Back to Bellingham. We've done about enough for today, and given ourselves plenty to think about. Also I've picked up the first of the rifles we aren't looking for.”
“You don't think it could be that one, sir?” asked the Sergeant. “I mean, you've got some reason?”