lessly. Tremaine was rolling another cigarette, and the coroner, glancing at him, noted the meaning smile which passed across his lips.
“Have you a t’eory, Mr. Tremaine?” he questioned respectfully. “I should be fery glad to hear it, iff you have.”
“Why, yes,” answered Tremaine slowly, “a possible explanation occurs to me. However, it’s only a theory, and so may be worth nothing, but it seems to me that after committing a crime like that, the murderer would seek instantly to dispose of the weapon with which it was committed. What better hiding-place could he ask than the waters of the bay? He would hurl the pistol far out—only, by a strange chance, instead of falling into the water, it fell into the boat.” Of course, he added, in another tone, “I fully agree with Mr. Delroy that Mr. Drysdale could not have committed the crime. The pistol no doubt passed from his possession some time ago. He can explain that.”
Heffelbower nodded with open admiration.
“Yes,” he said; “I’ll ask him about it. I’m sure your t’eory iss t’e correct one, Mr. Tremaine. I present you my compliments. You yourself did not leave t’e house yesterday evening?”
“Mr. Delroy can tell you.”
“No,” answered Delroy, “Mr. Tremaine did not leave the house yesterday evening.”
“Nobody went out except Mr. Drysdale,” spoke up Thomas. “I was in th’ vestibule till nearly midnight, when Mr. Delroy told me t’ go to bed.”
“You saw Mr. Drysdale come in?”
