Sir Nigel, I
beg of you, tell us the story before the constable comes. It might make
things easier for you in the long run."
Merriton, thus addressed, threw up his head suddenly and showed a face
marked with mental anguish, dry-eyed, deathly white. He got slowly to his
feet and went over to the table, leaning his hand upon it as though for
support.
"Oh, well," he said, listlessly, "you might as well hear it first as
last. Doctor Bartholomew's right, Mr. Headland. I _did_ fire a shot upon
the night of Dacre Wynne's disappearance, and I fired it from my bedroom
window. It was like this:
"Wynne had gone, and after waiting for him to come back away past the
given time, we all made up our minds to go to bed, and Tony West--a pal
of mine who was one of the guests--and the Doctor here accompanied me to
my room door. Dr. Bartholomew had a room next to mine. In that part of
the house the walls are thin, and although my revolver (which I always
carry with me, Mr. Headland, since I lived in India) is one of those
almost soundless little things, still, the sound of it reached him.
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