garette-box.

It opened easily. A small and light revolver, of beautiful workmanship,
was disclosed, with a score or so of loose cartridges. On the stock were
engraved the initials 'J. M.'

A step was heard on the stairs, and as Trent opened the breech and
peered into the barrel of the weapon, Inspector Murch appeared at the
open door of the room. 'I was wondering--' he began; then stopped as
he saw what the other was about. His intelligent eyes opened slightly.
'Whose is the revolver, Mr Trent?' he asked in a conversational tone.

'Evidently it belongs to the occupant of the room, Mr Marlowe,' replied
Trent with similar lightness, pointing to the initials. 'I found this
lying about on the mantelpiece. It seems a handy little pistol to me,
and it has been very carefully cleaned, I should say, since the last
time it was used. But I know little about firearms.'

'Well, I know a good deal,' rejoined the inspector quietly, taking the
revolver from Trent's outstretched hand. 'It's a bit of a speciality
with me, is firearms, as I think you know, Mr Trent. But it don't
require an expert to tell one thing.' He replaced the revolver in its
case on the mantel-shelf, took out one of the cartridges, and laid it
on the spacious palm of one hand; then, taking a small object from
his waistcoat pocket, he laid it beside the cartridge. It was a little
leaden bullet, slightly battered about the nose, and having upon it some
bright new scratches.

'Is that the one?' Trent murmured as he bent over the inspector's hand.

'That's him,' replied Mr Murch. 'Lodged in the bone at the back of the
skull. Dr Stock got it out within the last hour, and handed it to the
local officer, who has just sent it on to me. These bright scratches you
see were made by the doctor's instruments. These other marks were made
by the rifling of the barrel a barrel like this one.' He tapped the
revolver. 'Same make, same calibre. There is no other that marks the
bullet just like this.'

With the pistol in its case between them, Trent and the inspector looked
into each other's eyes for some moments. Trent was the first to speak.
'This mystery is all wrong,' he observed. 'It is insanity. The symptoms
of mania are very marked. Let us see how we stand. We were not in any
doubt, I believe, about Manderson having dispatched Marlowe in the car
to Southampton, or about Marlowe having gone, returning late last night,
many hours after the murder was committed.'

'There