“I should be proud to feel that we were acting together, Mr. Holmes,” said the inspector, earnestly.
“In that case I should be glad to hear the evidence and to examine the premises without an instant of unnecessary delay.”
Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow my friend to do things in his own fashion, and contented himself with carefully noting the results. The local surgeon, an old, white-haired man, had just come down from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt’s room, and he reported that her injuries were serious, but not necessarily fatal. The bullet had passed through the front of her brain, and it would probably be some time before she could regain consciousness. On the question of whether she had been shot or had shot herself, he would not venture to express any decided opinion. Certainly th
