"For instance?" I suggested, but he was on guard again.
"You forget one thing, Knox," he said, after a moment. "There was nobody else who could have shot him: the room was empty."
"Nonsense," I replied. "Don't forget the warehouse."
"The warehouse!"
"There is no doubt in my mind that he was shot from there. He was facing the open window, sitting directly under the light, writing. A shot fired through a broken pane of one of the warehouse windows would meet every requirement of the case: the empty room, the absence of powder marks—even the fact that no shot was heard. There was a report, of course, but the noise in the club-house and the thunder-storm outside covered it."
"By George!" he exclaimed. "The warehouse, of course. I never thought of it." He was relieved, for some reason.
"It's a question now of how many people knew he was at the club, and which of them hated him enough to kill him."
"Clarkson knew it," Wardrop said, "but he didn't do it."
"Why?"
"Because it was he who came to the door of the room while the detective and you and I were inside, and called Fleming."