"What?" roared the other, and it was hard to say whether rage or astonishment predominated in his voice. "Is that one of Hilton's dodges to get me into trouble?"
"But you do own an Express rifle, which you keep in your sitting-room. Where is it now?"
"In the place where it always is. Standing in a corner behind the bookcase."
"When did you see it last, Mr. Fenley?"
"How the deuce do I know? I give it a run through with an oiled rag about once a month. It must be nearly a month since I cleaned it."
"It has gone."
"Gone where?"
"I wish I knew."
"But who the devil could have taken it?"
If ever a man was floundering in a morass of wrath and amazement it was this loud-voiced youngster. He was a slow-witted lout, but the veriest dullard must have perceived that the disappearance of the weapon which presumably killed his father was a serious matter for its owner.