The Chief Constable turned to Blick, who promptly drew the automatic pistol from his pocket and handed it over. Both watched curiously as Harry examined it.
“That’s it!” he said. “But how——”
“Mr. Markenmore!” interrupted the Chief Constable. “This is where the unpleasant part of the business comes in! That pistol was found, by Detective-Sergeant Blick himself, thrown away in a hole—a badger hole—behind the bushes in Deep Lane there, last Friday evening. Now, Mr. Markenmore, have you any idea how your pistol came to be there? For it is the automatic pistol you bought at Widdington’s—we’ve identified the number and mark.”
Harry Markenmore, healthy enough in colour until then, had paled, and he was staring at the automatic pistol with a frown that was half angry and half puzzled.
“I!” he exclaimed. “How should I know how it came there!”
“But you’ll know what you did with the pistol when you bought it, Mr. Markenmore!” said the Chief Constable. “I gather from your last remark that it passed out of your possession. Now, Mr. Markenmore, be frank with us! To whom did you give the pistol?—or to whom did you lend it? Anyway, who’s had it?”
Harry Markenmore handed the pistol back, and replaced his hands in his pockets.
“Look here!” he said quietly. “You’d better be frank, too. Are you suggesting that it was a shot from that thing that caused my brother’s death?”
“We think it extremely probable, Mr. Markenmore,” answered the Chief Constable. “We showed it to the police-surgeon last night, and in his opinion, it is just the sort of thing that was used.”
“And whom do you suspect of using it?” demanded Harry. “Come, now?”