“No,” he replied. “I have nearly finished, and I shall treat you as a friend, and keep you waiting while I do the little that is left.” He turned to his papers and took up his pen, but paused to cast one of his quick, penetrating glances at me.
“Has anything fresh happened?” he asked.
“Our unknown friend has had a pot at me,” I answered. “That is all.”
He laid down his pen, and leaning back in his chair, demanded particulars. I gave him an account of what had happened on the preceding night, and, taking the leaden ball from my pocket, laid it on the table. He picked it up, examined it curiously, and then placed it on the letter balance.
“Just over half an ounce,” he said. “It is a mercy it missed your head. With that weight and the velocity indicated by the flattening, it would have dropped you insensible with a fractured skull.”
“And then he would have come along and put the finishing touches, I suppose. But I wonder how he shot the thing. Could he have used an air gun?”
Thorndyke shook his head. “An air gun that would discharge a ball of that weight would make quite a loud report, and you say you heard nothing. You are quite sure of that, by the way?”
“Perfectly. The place was as silent as the grave.”
“Then he must have used a catapult; and an uncommonly efficient weapon it is in skilful hands, and as portable as a pistol. You mustn’t give him another chance, Gray.”
“I am not going to, if I can help it. But what the deuce does the fellow want to pot at me for? It is a most mysterious thing. Do you understand what it is all about, Sir?”