His reasons for taking the gun were clear enough. A snake without fangs is harmless. So, too, is a crook without a gun. The fewer guns there are in a night crowd such as this, the better. For all that, Jimmie seldom mixed business with pleasure. Without doubt he carried that gun for defense only. For the moment he was defenseless; quite as defenseless as his many victims. What a pity that the victims did not know this! As it was, Jimmie and his companion imbibed fresh culture without further disturbance.
That night when Drew returned to the shack, he found the slight form of Newton Mills still bent over his microscope.
“There you are, Old Timer!” Drew exclaimed as he removed the clip from Jimmie’s gun and let it drop with a clatter on the table. “There’s another little plaything for you.”
Newton Mills looked at the gun for a space of ten seconds. Then, as his weary eyes became focused upon it, he seized it eagerly.
“It’s the type!” His words were tense.
“What do you mean, the type?”
“It is the type of gun from which that bullet was fired.”
“What bullet?”
“The one that may have ended the life of your good friend Rosy.”
“No!”