“Major Hartopp had it packed up to take away with him last night,” she said.
“But he didn’t take it,” the woman interrupted. “I found out as much as that at the prison. He decided that it had better be sent to Scotland Yard. One of their men has taken over the case, since they resolved to make it a frame-up for murder against poor old Max. The gun’s still here, my lady. I want to look at it. It might help.”
“I believe it’s nailed up in a box,” Félice told her reluctantly.
“I’ll get the nails out if I tear my fingers to pieces,” the woman cried. “Tell me where the box is. Tell me how to find my way there quickly.”
Félice rose slowly to her feet.
“Come with me,” she directed. “If we meet any of the upper servants or any of the gentlemen back from the shooting because of the rain, remember I’m showing you over the house. Look around you as we go.”
“I’m on, lady.”
They passed down the splendid staircase into the main hall and crossed the picture gallery into the billiard room. There, upon the table, stood a wooden box in which some cases of cartridges had come down a few days before from London.
“The revolver is in there,” Félice confided. “Wait a moment. I wonder whether I dare have one of the servants take the lid off.”
“Don’t you do it, my lady,” the woman advised. “I can find out what I want to know. If you call the servants, they’d only get interfering.”
She flung herself upon the box, tore at the sides, pried her fingers under the lid; in a few moments the blood was streaming from their tips. She crowded a newspaper underneath and went on with her task. She was like a she-wolf, tearing at the box. Her elbow even pushed Félice away.
“I’m going to see it, my lady,” she insisted. “The lid’s nearly off. I ain’t doing no harm. The blood isn’t going on the billiard cloth. It’s my Max, my lady. I’ve got to see it. They’re going to let me have a word with him to-night.”
With a crash, the top yielded. From the heap of shavings inside, she extracted the gun. She turned it over, shook it, glanced at the initials scratched upon the butt, and let it drop from her fingers.
“My God!” she cried. “But there’s wicked men in this world! My lady, there’s murderers around!”
“What do you mean?” Félice demanded.
The woman’s passion was infectious; Félice, too, was trembling.
“That gun—you see it—that belongs to Bill Martin, my brother, my husband’s brother-in-law. That’s how they’re doing this vile thing on him, but on my b——y—I beg your ladyship’s pardon—God’s truth, them two initials ‘M.D.’ wasn’t there a month ago.”
Félice tried to think clearly.
“Please don’t be so excited,” she begged. “What is it you are trying to say? Do you mean that the revolver really belongs to your brother-in-law, and that some one has scratched your husband’s initials upon it?”
“So help me, God, my lady, that’s the truth!” the woman moaned. “They’ll trace that gun all right. They’ll trace it to Max’s brother-in-law easily enough. I’ll be straight with you. Bill’s in jail. It wasn’t much he did, but he’s in for fourteen months. Ellen’s always drunk. She’d sell it for a quid. They’ve pinched it somehow. Now they’ve got it planted on him sure.”
“Are you certain,” Félice asked her, “that your husband didn’t borrow the gun from your brother-in-law?”
“As sure as I stand on my feet. I saw it in Bill’s sitting room three days after Max had done the job, whilst he was hiding. The gun was there then, all clean, and without any initials scratched on it. What can we do with it, my lady? You don’t want Max to swing any more than I do. Isn’t there some place we could hide it, where it would be never seen or heard of again? It ain’t any use my having seen it in Bill’s room. They won’t let me give evidence.”
They looked at each other helplessly. Already the table was strewn with pieces of torn wood. How to dispose of a solid thing like a revolver, which wouldn’t burn? The woman snatched it up as though to conceal it in her dress. Félice shook her head.
“Be careful,” she enjoined. “They know who you are here. They will know that I have brought you into the billiard room. There is the broken box. If the gun is missing, there is nothing else to be said. You came here to fetch it because you knew that it would hang your husband. It will not do. We must think of something else.”
“Well, what?” the woman demanded. “You are clever, my lady. You’ve got education, which I haven’t got. Think quickly!”
“I think this,” Félice declared. “You have the cleverest avocat in England. He will find out who went to your sister-in-law and gave her money so that she parted with the weapon. That will be easy. Then there must be some of your husband’s friends who will be able to swear that the gun belonged to your brother and not to him. That is what being a clever lawyer means. Sir Richard will find somebody who will be able to swear that the revolver was where you saw it after September the first.”
“There’s a-many would swear that, if they’ll listen to them,” the woman agreed, more hopefully.
“A witness, he goes into the box, he swears he tells the truth, and of course he must be believed,” Félice insisted. “Wait!”
She moved to the window and listened. The rain had slackened, and the sound of guns on the other side of the park was still to be heard—more frequent now, but no nearer.
“Listen,” she said, “I am going to have Parkins pack up this gun again in another cartridge box. I will tell Sir Richard of your visit. He is here staying in the house. He knows already all about the gun. He will know how to act. If he finds out, remember, who borrowed the gun from your sister-in-law, who scratched those initials on, why then the discovery of this thing will save him instead of hurting him. They will know then how to find the guilty person.”
The woman breathed deeply for some moments. The strained look left her face.
“I believe you are right, my lady. The more I think of it, the more I believe you are right.”
“Are they going to let you see your husband again to-night?” Félice asked.
The woman nodded.
“He’s not so terrible ill,” she confided. “He’s just nervous, is Max. A shock like hearing about that gun was enough to make a sick man of him. They’re letting me see him, all right. It’s easy enough in the infirmary. They just search me first to see that I don’t take him poison or anything of that sort, and they let me sit and talk with him as free-like as you please. I’ll be getting along.”
Félice rang the bell.
“You would like a little luncheon, perhaps, Mrs. Drayton?” she suggested.
“The gentleman that’s your butler gave me a good bite when I arrived,” the woman replied gratefully.
“Then will you send around to the stables for the taxicab and see Mrs. Drayton into it,” Félice directed the footman who had answered the bell, “and tell Parkins I want to see him.”
Mrs. Drayton departed. She dropped her voice as well as a curtsey as she passed Félice.
“I’ve finished with saying thank you, my lady,” she declared, “and I haven’t any words. Some day I may be able to find them when the trouble’s over.”
Félice waved her away smilingly. The butler made his dignified appearance. He looked at the debris on the table with astonishment.
“Parkins,”