"Has the—the knife been found?" Quarles asked.
"No," answered the captain. "You hesitate in your question a little. You are certain it was a knife, I suppose?"
"Yes, why do you ask?"
"His man says it was a bullet."
"A bullet!" and Quarles looked back at the wound.
"The servant Bennett does not deny that he killed his master," said the doctor; "but he persists in saying that he had no knife."
"Has a revolver been found?" I asked.
"No, and no one heard any report," said the captain. "I cannot make this fellow Bennett out. He seems to me rather mad. Besides, there are one or two curious points. Would you like to hear them now?"
"Please," said Quarles.
With sailor-like directness the story was told in a straightforward narrative, destitute of trimmings of any kind. A steward had gone to Mr. Hardiman's cabin to take him a weak brandy-and-water; he had done the same first thing every morning during the voyage. He saw Hardiman lying with his face toward the cabin, one arm hanging over the side of the berth. There was no sign of a struggle. The clothes were not thrown back, but there was a considerable quantity of blood. Curiously enough, the porthole had been unscrewed and was open. The steward fetched Dr. Williams, the ship's doctor, who said death had probably occurred five or six hours previously, a statement Sir Robert Gibbs corroborated. There was no knife anywhere.