"Let's go inside and get a light," said Winter, and the four mounted the steps into the hall. Robert Fenley was there—red-faced as ever, for he had helped in putting out the fire, but quite sober, since he had been very sick.
Some lamps and candles gave a fair amount of light, and Robert eyed Trenholme viciously.
"So it was you!" he said. "I thought it was. Well, my father and mother are both dead, and this is no time for settlin' matters; but I'll look you up when this business is all over."
"If you do, you'll get hurt," said Winter brusquely. "Is that your rifle?" and he pointed to the weapon in Farrow's hands.
"Yes. Where was it found?"
"In the Quarry Wood, sir, but a'most in the park," said the policeman.
"Has it been used recently?"
Fenley could hardly have put a question better calculated to prove his own innocence of any complicity in the crime.
Winter took the gun, meaning to open the breech, but he and Furneaux simultaneously noticed a bit of black thread tied to one of the triggers. It had been broken, and the two loose ends were some inches in length.
"That settles it," muttered Furneaux. "The scoundrel fixed it to a thick branch, aimed it carefully on more than one occasion—look at the sights, set for four hundred yards—and fired it by pulling a cord from his bedroom window when he saw his father occupying the exact position where the sighting practiced on Monday and Tuesday showed that a fatal wound would be inflicted. The remaining length of cord was stronger than this packing thread, which was bound to give way first when force was applied.... Well, that side of the question didn't bother us much, did it, Winter?"