'Evidently it belongs to the occupant of the room, Mr. Marlowe,' replied Trent with similar lightness, pointing to the initials. 'I found this lying about on the mantelpiece. It seems a handy little pistol to me, and it has been very carefully cleaned, I should say, since the last time it was used. But I know little about firearms.'
'Well, I know a good deal,' rejoined the inspector quietly, taking the revolver from Trent's outstretched hand. 'It's a bit of a speciality with me, is firearms, as I think you know, Mr. Trent. But it don't require an expert to tell one thing.' He replaced the revolver in its case on the mantel-shelf, took out one of the cartridges, and laid it on the spacious palm of one hand; then, taking a small object from his waistcoat pocket, he laid it beside the cartridge. It was a little leaden bullet, slightly battered about the nose, and having upon it some bright new scratches.
'Is that the one?' Trent murmured as he bent over the inspector's hand.
'That's him,' replied Mr. Murch. 'Lodged in the bone at the back of the skull. Dr. Stock got it out within the last hour, and handed
