“Not a trace, Knox,” he murmured; “not a trace. Let us try again.”
He moved along to the yew adjoining that which he had already inspected, but presently shook his head and passed to the next. Then:
“Ah!” he cried. “Come here, Knox!”
I joined him where he was kneeling, staring at what I took to be a large nail, or bolt, protruding from the bark of the tree.
“You see!” he exclaimed, “you see!”
I stooped, in order to examine the thing more closely, and as I did so, I realized what it was. It was the bullet which had killed Colonel Menendez!
Harley stood upright, his face slightly flushed and his eyes very bright.
“We shall not attempt to remove it, Knox,” he said. “The depth of penetration may have a tale to tell. The wood of the yew tree is one of the toughest British varieties.”
“But, Harley,” I said, blankly, as we descended to the path, “this is merely another point for the prosecution of Camber. Unless”—I turned to him in sudden excitement, “the bullet was of different”
“No, no,” he murmured, “nothing so easy as that, Knox. The bullet was fired from a Lee-Enfield beyond doubt.”
I stared at him uncomprehendingly.
“Then I am utterly out of my depth, Harley. It appears to me that the case against Camber is finally and fatally complete. Only the motive remains to be discovered, and I flatter myself that I have already detected this.”
“I am certainly inclined to think,” admitted Harley, “that there is a good deal in your theory.”
