Keith was looking at her, deep in thought.
"I don't understand," he said slowly. "Who could it have been?"
Mrs. Sherwood shook her head.
"Somebody about to shoot a pistol; that's all I know. I couldn't see his face."
"Whoever it was, you saved one or both of us," said Keith, "there's no doubt in my mind of that. Let's see the pistol."
It proved to be one of the smaller Colt's models, about 31 calibre, cap and ball, silver plated, with polished rosewood handles, and heavily engraved with scrollwork. Turning it over, Keith finally discovered on the bottom of the butt frame two letters scratched rudely, apparently with the point of a knife. He took it closer to the light.
"I have it," said he. "Here are the letters C.M."
"Charles Morrell!" cried both women in a breath.
At this moment appeared Krafft, somewhat out of wind, followed by the surly and reluctant proprietor from whom the place took its name. Jake had been liberally paid to keep himself and his staff out of the way. Now finding that he was not wanted, he promptly disappeared.
"Let's get to the bottom of this thing," said Keith decisively. "If those are really meant for Morrell's initials, what was he doing here?"