"Guess I haven't had a minute, John," he said. "Those police fellers are drivers. Say, we always reckon they're a bright crowd. You need to see 'em at work to get a right notion. They've got most things beat before they start."
"This one?"
Kars settled himself in a chair opposite his visitor. His manner was that of a man prepared to listen rather than talk. He stretched his long legs comfortably.
"I said 'most.' No-o, not this one. That's the trouble. That's why I wrote you. The police are asking a question. And they've got to find an answer. Who fired the shots that shut out that boy's lights?"
Kars' brows were raised. An incredulous look searched the other's face.
"Why, that 'gunman'—surely."
Bill shook his head. He had been probing a vest pocket. Now he produced a small object, and handed it across to the other with a keen demand.
"What's that?" His eyes were twinkling alertly.
Kars took the object and examined it closely under the electric light. After a prolonged scrutiny he handed it back.
"The bullet of a 'thirty-two' automatic," he said.