Something in the faces of his auditors stopped him, and he changed colour.
“What do you fellows want, anyway?” he demanded hotly.
“Sit down, Mr. Drysdale,” said the coroner solemnly, himself taking a chair. “Our business may take some little time. You own a revolver, I believe.”
“Yes,” said Jack, “a Smith & Wesson. I was just looking for it. When I opened my trunk just now, I missed it.”
“How long has it been since you saw it?”
“I can’t say—two or three days, perhaps.”
“You kept it in your trunk?”
“Yes.”
“And the trunk was locked?”
“Yes—that is, generally.”
“Was it locked last night?”
“Yes—that is, I don’t know—I’m not certain. Why?”
“Did you have your revolver last night?”
“No, I haven’t seen it for a day or two, I tell you.”
“Iss t’is your revolver?” asked the coroner, producing the weapon.
Drysdale took it and looked at it with an air of astonishment.
“Why, yes,” he said. “Where did you get it?”
“And iss t’is your raincoat?”
“Yes-but what”
“You wore it when you went out last night?”
“Yes-but I insist”
“Mr. Drysdale,” asked the coroner sternly, “for
