In the hollow of it lay the little
ivory-handled revolver which he had taken from Loris.

"What are they going to do when they learn about this?" he asked with
shrewd reasoning. "Particularly, Mr. Nichols, when the caliber of this
revolver is probably the same caliber of the bullet which entered, and
is still in, Mr. Stockbridge's brain."

The gray eyes narrowed. The lips compressed until they were white. They
seemed drawn with pain. A faint hiss of surprise sounded in the room.
Harry Nichols turned and strode to an ornate mantel-piece upon which
was a single cabinet photo. He lifted it impulsively. He stared at the
picture of Loris Stockbridge as if in it lay inspiration, and resolve.
He set the photo down and wheeled upon Drew. His eyes blazed.

"If you have no connection in this case, save as an adviser," he said
clearly and from his heart, "why are you trying to trap me or her? Are
all detectives alike? Would they rather see a man in jail than free?"

Drew closed his fingers over the little revolver. He glanced upward at
Delaney's towering bulk which was near the doorway leading to the outer
hall. This door was the only way out of the apartment. The detective
gave no signal to the operative. His fingers uncoiled and revealed a
thumb pressing upon the silver-plated barrel from which the leaden
noses of six bullets showed as he turned it.

"You are wrong," he said with simple naivete. "You wrong me in this
matter. The affair at Stockbridge's will sooner or later bring you in
contact with the Police Department's Detective Bureau. Fosdick, the
district attorney, the coroner, may want to interview you. The
servants, the newspapers, idle tongues will connect your name with that
of Loris Stockbridge. This connection, taking in the fact that she had
a revolver of the same caliber as was used to slay her father, may
cause trouble. I want----"

"How do you know it's the same revolver--the same caliber?"

There was a stubborn defense in the young man's tones which somewhat
pleased the detective. It promised loyalty.

"It may not be the same revolver," Drew said softly. "It may be that
the murder was not committed with a revolver. A rifle, held close to a
man's brain, would make the same kind of mark and burns. I do know
this, however, that the opening in Mr. Stockbridge's head is the same
size as my lead pencil--which I have measured and found to be under a
quarter-inch. It would seem then that twenty-two caliber migh