Black Widow. S. Fowler Wright

besides hers, and one that’s certainly Sir Daniel’s, they’re too blurred to recognize. So it’s against her as far as it goes.”

      “Yes, rather heavily. There must have been ample time for her or the half-brother to wipe it clean, but she wouldn’t wipe anyone else’s marks off and then handle it again herself.”

      “No. If the murderer had escaped before she entered the room, he might have done so in theory, but that wouldn’t have taken time, which, by her tale, he couldn’t have had.”

      “So, unless it was suicide, it points straight to her.”

      Inspector Pinkey rose as he spoke, and was soon in the Superintendent’s car again, on the way to Bywater Grange.

      CHAPTER III.

      Inspector Pinkey had shown already that he was a tactful man. He was given a fresh opportunity of demonstrating this when he was met by Mr. Gerard Denton with the news that Lady Denton had retired early, being unwell. Mr. Gerard was, perhaps, rather more apologetic than the occasion required. He alluded vaguely to yesterday’s funeral. He said that Lady Denton had had rather a worrying time, which cannot be considered an over-emphatic description of the experience through which she had passed. He said that she hoped to meet the Inspector at breakfast on the following morning.

      Having said this, he introduced his guest to a well-stocked library, and excused himself rather hastily, saying that dinner would be at seven-thirty. Inspector Pinkey decided that he was not eager to talk.

      He had resolved to ask Lady Denton’s permission before questioning the household staff, whether in or out. He had not anticipated that this would cause any delay, and it would be a courtesy which would cost him nothing, as it could not be refused. He now decided that another day would make no difference, in view of the time which had passed already, and he would leave everything (except, perhaps, Mr. Gerard) till the next day.

      Gerard sat opposite to him at dinner, with Lady Denton’s empty place at the table-head between them. The difference between brothers is sometimes very wide, and it is reasonable that that which separates half-brothers may be wider still. Sir Daniel had been a man of height and substance and an overbearing manner. Gerard was undersized, furtive, ingratiating. There is a type of woman who would have called him handsome, and he had the veneer of a gentleman.

      He maintained a sufficient conversation on indifferent topics until Pauline, the pleasant, soft-voiced parlour maid who waited upon them, had withdrawn from the room; and then, somewhat to the Inspector’s surprise, he brought up the subject of his brother’s death, and discussed, with an apparent frankness, the problem which it presented.

      He gave an account of his own experience which agreed substantially with that which the Inspector had heard already. He had been reading in the library and had not heard the shot, or, at least, not sufficiently distinctly to guess what it was. The doors of Bywater Grange were thick and well fitted. He doubted whether he would have been sufficiently disturbed or curious to enquire the cause, but that he had been roused the next moment by an agonized scream from Lady Denton—“Gerard! Gerard!”—and had run at once to her aid.

      He told this tale clearly enough, though with some agitation of manner, and perhaps a little over-assertion, which might be natural under the circumstances. Supported as it was by Lady Denton’s account, it seemed to remove suspicion from him, and concentrated it the more surely upon herself. He was evidently conscious of this, and showed some anxiety to assert her innocence. He dwelt on the note of surprise and horror which he had heard in her first scream. He admitted that he did not see how anyone could have escaped by the study door along the passage after the shot was fired without being seen either by her or him.

      That being so, he inclined to the opinion that his brother had taken his own life. For what other explanation could there be?

      He put forward the ingenious theory that Sir Daniel might have deliberately endeavoured to shoot himself in such a way that it would not appear to be his own act.

      The Inspector agreed as to the possibility; but asked, why should he do that?

      Gerard suggested spite against some individual (unspecified), or the household generally. No one who knew his brother would consider it an unlikely action.

      The Inspector was not impressed by this argument. He could see no reason, at present, why Sir Daniel should commit suicide at all. But he observed that Gerard did not exhibit any regret at his brother’s death, or anxiety that the murderer (if any) should be secured. If he were giving a true account, the evidence in his mind against his sister-in-law must be almost conclusively strong, for what was no more than unproved assertion to the Inspector must be certain knowledge to him. Yet it did not appear to have influenced him against her, whether because his appreciation of her character was sufficient to assert her innocence against any weight of adverse evidence, or that his feeling toward his brother were such that he did not care whether she had shot him or not.

      The Inspector led the conversation in the direction of the ex-secretary, and learned that, in Gerard’s opinion, there was little, if anything, too base or criminal for Mr. Redwin to attempt, no fate too dreadful to be deserved. It was evident that responsibility for Sir Daniel’s death would be very gladly laid at his door. But he appeared to recognize, with whatever reluctance, that it would be difficult to establish the charge against a man who was playing billiards two miles away.

      Dinner being over, Inspector Pinkey excused himself and went early to bed. He was a busy man, and accustomed to take sleep when he could get it. He had leisure to give some quiet consideration to Mr. Gerard Denton, who was of a type for which he had an instinc­tive antipathy, but he recognized that that was no evidence that he was responsible for Sir Daniel’s end.

      At present, on his own evidence, and that of Lady Denton, he was in an impregnable position; and this was supported by that of the gardener’s boy, which eliminated the possibility that he might have left by the window, and returned to the library round the outside of the house. But could the Inspector accept this as final, and dismiss him from consideration? He was less inclined to do this owing to an idea which had come to him in explanation of the marks on the pistol, during the conversation at the police station, but which he had kept to his own mind. Suppose that Gerard Denton had used the weapon with a handkerchief or a gloved hand; or suppose, during the first moments of Lady Denton’s agitation, that he had found an opportunity to wipe it, unseen by her; and had then suggested that it should be picked up, so that her finger marks should show upon it?

      It was an improbable, but not impossible, explanation, and eliminated any question of the time necessary to clean it before the very hurried escape which he must have made.

      It suggested that he was willing to throw the blame upon her, which his conversation did not confirm; but that might be no more than evidence of his own cunning. He might see that suspicion must ultimately settle upon her without any support from him, and the evidence that he would be prepared to give would be more damning if it seemed to come from reluctant lips. Or he might wish her no evil at all, providing only that there were enough suspicion against her to divert the lightning from his own head.

      Ruminating over these possibilities, he was led to observe that it did not logically follow that, if Lady Denton had picked up the revolver, her brother-in-law had suggested the act; nor that, if it had been previously used in a covered hand, it was he who had worn the glove. He reminded himself of what an older officer had once said to him when he was busy with his first important case, and he had made report of various ingenious theories which he had constructed to explain a somewhat mysterious crime. “Son,” he had said, “I can see you’re a smart lad; but what I want to know is who killed Ben Jacobson, and one fact’s worth a hundred theories for that.”

      One fact, as he had often observed since, was worth a hundred theories. And if facts should seem inconsistent or incomplete, the only remedy was to go on searching for more. So far, they all pointed one way.

      But there remained the question of Gerard’s character. That was not theory but fact, though it might be a fact which he did not completely know. Now he had seen the man, could he definitely eliminate him from the list of possible suspects?

      He