Mr. Murch chuckled. “I thought I should take a rise out of you, Mr. Trent,” he said. “Well, there’s no harm in telling you. After I arrived yesterday evening, as soon as I had got the outlines of the story from Mrs. Manderson and the servants, the first thing I did was to go to the telegraph office and wire to our people in Southampton. Manderson had told his wife when he went to bed that he had changed his mind, and sent Marlowe to Southampton to get some important information from someone who was crossing by the next day’s boat. It seemed right enough, but, you see, Marlowe was the only one of the household who wasn’t under my hand, so to speak. He didn’t return in the car until later in the evening; so before thinking the matter out any further, I wired to Southampton making certain enquiries. Early this morning I got this reply.” He handed a series of telegraph slips to Trent, who read:
Person answering description in motor answering description arrived Bedford Hotel here 6:30 this morning gave name Marlowe left car hotel garage told attendant car belonged Manderson had bath and breakfast went out heard of later at docks inquiring for passenger name Harris on Havre boat inquired repeatedly until boat left at noon next heard of at hotel where he lunched about 1:15 left soon afterwards in car company’s agents inform berth was booked name Harris last week but Harris did not travel by boat Burke Inspector.
“Simple and satisfactory,” observed Mr. Murch as Trent, after twice reading the message, returned it to him. “His own story corroborated in every particular. He told me he hung about the dock for half an hour or so on the chance of Harris turning up late, then strolled back, lunched, and decided to return at once. He sent a wire to Manderson—‘Harris not turned up missed boat returning Marlowe,’ which was duly delivered here in the afternoon, and placed among the dead man’s letters. He motored back at a good rate, and arrived dog-tired. When he heard of Manderson’s death from Martin, he nearly fainted. What with that and the being without sleep for so long, he was rather a wreck when I came to interview him last night; but he was perfectly coherent.”
Trent picked up the revolver and twirled the cylinder idly for a few moments. “It was unlucky for Manderson that Marlowe left his pistol and cartridges about so carelessly,” he remarked at length, as he put it back in the case. “It was throwing temptation in somebody’s way, don’t you think?”
Mr. Murch shook his head. “There isn’t really much to lay hold of about the revolver, when you come to think. That particular make of revolver is common enough in England. It was introduced from the States. Half the people who buy a revolver today for self-defence or mischief provide themselves with that make, of that calibre. It is very reliable, and easily carried in the hip-pocket. There must be thousands of them in the possession of crooks and honest men. For instance,” continued the inspector with an air of unconcern, “Manderson himself had one, the double of this. I found it in one of the top drawers of the desk downstairs, and it’s in my overcoat pocket now.”
“Aha! so you were going to keep that little detail to yourself.”
“I was,” said the inspector; “but as you’ve found one revolver, you may as well know about the other. As I say, neither of them may do us any good. The people in the house—”
Both men started, and the inspector checked his speech abruptly, as the half-closed door of the bedroom was slowly pushed open, and a man stood in the doorway. His eyes turned from the pistol in its open case to the faces of Trent and the inspector. They, who had not heard a sound to herald this entrance, simultaneously looked at his long, narrow feet. He wore rubber-soled tennis shoes.
“You must be Mr. Bunner,” said Trent.
VI
Mr. Bunner on the Case
“Calvin C. Bunner, at your service,” amended the newcomer, with a touch of punctilio, as he removed an unlighted cigar from his mouth. He was used to finding Englishmen slow and ceremonious with strangers, and Trent’s quick remark plainly disconcerted him a little. “You are Mr. Trent, I expect,” he went on. “Mrs. Manderson was telling me a while ago. Captain, good morning.” Mr. Murch acknowledged the outlandish greeting with a nod. “I was coming up to my room, and I heard a strange voice in here, so I thought I would take a look in.” Mr. Bunner laughed easily. “You thought I might have been eavesdropping, perhaps,” he said. “No, sir; I heard a word or two about a pistol—this one, I guess—and that’s all.”
Mr. Bunner was a thin, rather short young man with a shaven, pale, bony, almost girlish face, and large, dark, intelligent eyes. His waving dark hair was parted in the middle. His lips, usually occupied with a cigar, in its absence were always half open with a curious expression as of permanent eagerness. By smoking or chewing a cigar this expression was banished, and Mr. Bunner then looked the consummately cool and sagacious Yankee that he was.
Born in Connecticut, he had gone into a broker’s office on leaving college, and had attracted the notice of Manderson, whose business with his firm he had often handled. The Colossus had watched him for some time, and at length offered him the post of private secretary. Mr. Bunner was a pattern business man, trustworthy, long-headed, methodical, and accurate. Manderson could have found many men with those virtues; but he engaged Mr. Bunner because he was also swift and secret, and had besides a singular natural instinct in regard to
