“There’s your bullet, Sergeant.” He tossed a tiny cylinder of discolored lead on the drawing-room table. “Nothing but dumb luck. It entered the fifth intercostal space and travelled diagonally across the heart, coming out in the post-axillary fold at the anterior border of the trapezius muscle, where I could feel it under the skin; and I picked it out with my pen-knife.”
“All that fancy language don’t worry me,” grinned Heath, “so long’s I got the bullet.”
He picked it up and held it in the palm of his hand, his eyes narrowed, his mouth drawn into a straight line. Then, reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he took out two other bullets, and laid them beside the first. Slowly he nodded, and extended the sinister exhibits to Markham.
“There’s the three shots that were fired in this house,” he said. “They’re all .32-revolver bullets—just alike. You can’t get away from it, sir: all three people here were shot with the same gun.”
CHAPTER X.
The Closing of a Door
(Friday, November 12; 9.30 a. m.)
As Heath spoke Sproot passed down the hall and opened the front door, admitting Doctor Von Blon.
“Good morning, Sproot,” we heard him say in his habitually pleasant voice. “Anything new?”
“No, sir, I think not.” The reply was expressionless. “The District Attorney and the police are here.—Let me take your coat, sir.”
Von Blon glanced into the drawing-room, and, on seeing us, halted and bowed. Then he caught sight of Doctor Doremus, whom he had met on the night of the first tragedy.