said Noel after a moment. He spoke stiffly. “She—was strangled. Wasn’t she?” “Then it is your revolver?” repeated the detective. Noel shrugged helplessly. “Of course it’s mine. At least it looks like mine. And I had one in my bag. But I don’t know how it got there.” “Why did you have it with you? Is it your custom?” “No, it isn’t. I just happened to have it and when I was packing saw it among my things at Averill’s—I’d been staying there for a few weeks and naturally took it along rather than leave a loaded revolver there—” “You knew it was loaded?” “Certainly. If a shot’s been fired from it—well, I mean if no shot has been fired from it that proves she wasn’t shot with it, doesn’t it? And besides she—she wasn’t shot. She was strangled—” “You saw the blood, didn’t you?” said P. H. Sloane. “And if the revolver is fully loaded as you see it is, that doesn’t necessarily prove, it hasn’t been fired and reloaded. However—”
