“There’s where the bullet from her revolver struck,” he said. “There’s no doubt about that—it was taken out and found to fit. I’d give a good deal to know who it was she fired at and why she fired. I tell you, Lester, the more one thinks about that affair, the more incomprehensible it becomes, there are so many questions which seem unanswerable. Who was Thompson? How did he get in condition to receive her? Was the murderer a friend of Thompson’s? If not, how did he get into the rooms? Above all, why, after he had knocked Thompson down, should he stand over him and shoot him through the heart? That savours more of a wild beast than of a human being.”
He paused a moment in a sort of helpless perplexity, then sat down abruptly and turned to me.
“What were your points?” he asked.
“The first,” I said, looking at him, “will, I fear, help to tip the scale against Miss Croydon. She came here the morning after the inquest and tried to rent this apartment.”
He stared at me, astounded, his cigar in the air, while I repeated the story Higgins had told me. When I had finished, he sat gazing into vacancy, his lips compressed.
“I see it puzzles you,” I said, at last, enjoying his perplexity. “I confess I couldn’t make anything out of it.”
“Puzzles me!” he repeated, getting up again and walking nervously about the room. “Why, it’s the most astounding thing I ever heard—it’s the most unexplainable feature of this whole unexplainable case. I
