Suddenly she saw his whole figure stiffen. His voice, when he spoke, had altered. It was terse and curt.
“Mrs. Revel,” he said, “have you ever seen this pistol before?”
“No,” said Virginia wonderingly.
“Are you sure of that?”
“Quite sure.”
“Have you a pistol of your own?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had one?”
“No, never.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Quite sure.”
He stared at her steadily for a minute, and Virginia stared back in complete surprise at his tone.
Then, with a sigh, he relaxed.
“That’s odd,” he said. “How do you account for this?”
He held out the pistol. It was a small, dainty article, almost a toy—though capable of doing deadly work. Engraved on it was the name Virginia.
“Oh, it’s impossible!” cried Virginia.
Her astonishment was so genuine that Anthony could not but believe in it.
“Sit down,” he said quietly. “There’s more in this than there seemed to be first go off. To begin with, what’s our hypothesis? There are only two possible ones. There is, of course, the real Virginia of the letters. She may have somehow or other tracked him down, shot him, dropped the pistol, stolen the letters, and taken herself off. That’s quite possible, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Virginia unwillingly.
“The other hypothesis is a good deal more interesting. Whoever wished to kill Giuseppe, wished also to incriminate you—in fact that may have been their main object. They could get him easily enough anywhere, but they took extraordinary pains and trouble to get him here, and whoever they were they knew all about you, your cottage at Datchet, your usual household arrangements, and the fact that you were at Ranelagh this afternoon. It seems an absurd question, but have you any enemies, Mrs. Revel?”
“Of course I haven’t—not that kind, anyway.”
“The question is,” said Anthony, “what are we going to
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