“What is it, darling?”

Mrs. Easterbrook appeared through the open door.

“Remember my showing you that revolver of mine?”

“Oh, yes, Archie, a nasty horrid black thing.”

“Yes. Hun souvenir. Was in this drawer, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Well, it’s not there now.”

“Archie, how extraordinary!”

“You haven’t moved it or anything?”

“Oh, no, I’d never dare to touch the horrid thing.”

“Think old mother whatsername did?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so for a minute. Mrs. Butt would never do a thing like that. Shall I ask her?”

“No—no, better not. Don’t want to start a lot of talk. Tell me, do you remember when it was I showed it to you?”

“Oh, about a week ago. You were grumbling about your collars and the laundry and you opened this drawer wide and there it was at the back and I asked you what it was.”

“Yes, that’s right. About a week ago. You don’t remember the date?”

Mrs. Easterbrook considered, eyelids down over her eyes, a shrewd brain working.

“Of course,” she said. “It was Saturday. The day we were to have gone in to the pictures, but we didn’t.”

“H’m—sure it wasn’t before that? Wednesday? Thursday or even the week before that again?”

“No, dear,” said Mrs. Easterbrook. “I remember quite distinctly. It was Saturday the 30th. It just seems a long time because of all the trouble there’s been. And I can tell you how I remember. It’s because it was the day after the hold-up at Miss Blacklock’s. Because when I saw your revolver it reminded me of the shooting the night before.”

“Ah,” said Colonel Easterbrook, “then that’s a great load off my mind.”

“Oh, Archie, why?”

“Just because if that revolver had disappeared before the shooting—well, it might possibly have been my revolver that was pinched by that Swiss fellow.”

“But how would he have known you had one?”

“These gangs have a most extraordinary communication service. They get to know everything about a place and who lives there.”

“What a lot you do know, Archie.”

“Ha. Yes. Seen a thing or two in my time. Still as you definitely remember seeing my revolver after the hold-up—well, that settles it. The revolver that Swiss fellow used can’t have been mine, can it?”

“Of course it can’t.”

“A great relief. I should have had to go to the police about it. And they ask a lot of awkward questions. Bound to. As a matter of fact I never took out a licence for it. Somehow, after a war, one forgets these peacetime regulations. I looked on it as a war souvenir, not as a firearm.”

“Yes, I see. Of course.”

“But all the same—where on earth can the damned thing be?”

“Perhaps Mrs. Butt took it. She’s always seemed quite honest, but perhaps she felt nervous after the hold-up and thought she’d like to—to have a revolver in the house. Of course, she’ll never admit doing that. I shan’t even ask her. She might get offended. And what should we do then? This is such a big house—I simply couldn’t—”