"But I don't see that you can say that, sir, honest I don't! I mean, the thing couldn't be done! Unless - why, do you suppose the son was in it, too?"
"That long-haired nincompoop?" said Hemingway. "Not he!"
"Well, if you won't have him in it, how was it done, sir?"
"I don't know," replied Hemingway, "but if I didn't have a lot of yapping going on in my ear, I might be able to figure it out!"
The Sergeant relapsed into silence. Hemingway presently brought his gaze to bear on that offended countenance. "That hair-trigger pull," he said.
"Yes, sir, I know. I've been thinking about that, too. I've heard of guns being fired by the opening of a door, but this was out in the open, in full view of a couple of people who hadn't a thing to do with it - for you won't tell me Jones or Miss White were mixed up in the murder!"
"That's an idea," said Hemingway. "The opening of a door. Not bad, Wake, not at all bad! But you're wrong: it won't do. There couldn't have been any sort of string tied to that gate on to the bridge, because for one thing it would have been seen, and for another the rifle was about twenty yards off."
"I didn't think there was anything tied to the gate," said the Sergeant. "I admit it looks queer, White being the heir to the old lady's money, but I've met some odd coincidences before, and it's possible he doesn't even know he's the heir."
"If you've met any coincidences as odd as a chap getting himself bumped off when he's on his way to visit a relation of his, whose only hope of collecting a hundred thousand pounds is to see to it that the first chap hands in his checks before the present owner of that hundred thousand, you ought to write a book," said Hemingway.
"Relation! He was so far removed that not even Carter knew what kind of a fortieth cousin he was!"