what sort of
arrangement had been made with Sir Pierre. Not that it mattered except
that Lord Darcy had hoped it would be sufficiently involved for it to
keep the Countess busy for at least ten minutes.

The conversation, interrupted but momentarily, returned to grouse.

"I haven't done any shooting since my accident," said Laird Duncan,
"but I used to enjoy it immensely. I still have friends up every year
for the season."

"What sort of weapon do you prefer for grouse?" Lord Darcy asked.

"A one-inch bore with a modified choke," said the Scot. "I have a pair
that I favor. Excellent weapons."

"Of Scottish make?"

"No, no. English. Your London gunsmiths can't be beat for shotguns."

"Oh. I thought perhaps your lordship had had all your guns made in
Scotland." As he spoke, he took the little pistol out of his coat
pocket and put it carefully on the table.

There was a sudden silence, then Laird Duncan said in an angry voice:
"What is this? Where did you get that?"

Lord Darcy glanced at Lady Duncan, who had turned suddenly pale.
"Perhaps," he said coolly, "Lady Duncan can tell us."

She shook her head and gasped. For a moment, she had trouble in
forming words or finding her voice. Finally: "No. No. I know nothing.
Nothing."

But Laird Duncan looked at her oddly.

"You do not deny that it is your gun, my lord?" Lord Darcy asked. "Or
your wife's, as the case may be."

[Illustration]

"_Where did you get it?_" There was a dangerous quality in the
Scotsman's voice. He had once been a powerful man, and Lord Darcy
could see his shoulder muscles bunching.

"From the late Count D'Evreux's bedroom."

"What was it doing there?" There was a snarl in the Scot's voice, but
Lord Darcy had the feeling that the question was as much directed
toward Lady Duncan as it was to himself.

"One of the things it was doing there was shooting Count D'Evreux
through the heart."

Lady Duncan slumped forward in a dead faint, overturning her teacup.
Laird Duncan made a grab at the gun, ignoring his wife. Lord Darcy's
hand snaked out and picked up the weapon before the Scot could touch
it. "No, no, my lord," he said mildly. "This is evidence in a murder
case. We mustn't tamper with the King's evidence."

He wasn't prepared for what happened next. Laird Duncan roared
something obscene in Scots Gaelic, put his hands on the arms of his
wheelchair, and, with a great thrust of his powerful arms and
shoulders, shoved himself up and