“Mr. Brent!” exclaimed Graham. “You don’t mean—”
Bernard shook his head.
“I mean nothing—yet!” he said. “Unfortunately, we can’t have the gloves tried on until the expert has seen the finger-prints. In the meantime, I’m going to put them back in Joel’s den so they won’t be missed. It’s almost lunch time. I propose to pull off our experiment with the cross-bow as soon as everyone is in the dining-room. I’ll have to borrow your guard, Graham. But we won’t keep him more than ten minutes and you can lock your door. As to my theory—” he paused, teasingly.
“Well?” they demanded in unison.
Bernard turned away to Graham’s desk, sat down, found a blank sheet of note paper and a pencil and busied himself at writing for a moment. Then he rose and returned to the bedside, smiling his quizzical smile.
“I’ll just put myself on record for you both,” he said and handed the sheet to Landis.
After reading it eagerly enough, Landis snorted and passed it to Graham.
“Call that a theory?” he queried.
Graham read the scribbled lines more slowly, his brows furrowed by a puzzled frown. Bernard had written: