Paul Harley heaved a long sigh.
“I must congratulate you, Knox,” he said, gravely, “upon a really splendid contribution to my case. In several particulars I find myself nearer to the truth. But the definite establishment or shattering of your theory rests upon one thing.”
“What’s that?” I asked. “You are surely not thinking of the bat wing nailed upon the door?”
“Not at all,” he replied. “I am thinking of the seventh yew tree from the northeast corner of the Tudor garden.”
CHAPTER XXIX. A LEE-ENFIELD RIFLE
What reply I should have offered to this astonishing remark I cannot say, but at that moment the library door burst open unceremoniously, and outlined against the warmly illuminated hall, where sunlight poured down through the dome, I beheld the figure of Inspector Aylesbury.
“Ah!” he cried, loudly, “so you have come back, Mr. Harley? I thought you had thrown up the case.”
“Did you?” said Harley, smilingly. “No, I am still persevering in my ineffectual way.”
“Oh, I see. And have you quite convinced yourself that Colin Camber is innocent?”