“I should be proud to feel that we were acting together, Mr. Holmes,” said the inspector, earnestly.

“In that case I should be glad to hear the evidence and to examine the premises without an instant of unnecessary delay.”

Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow my friend to do things in his own fashion, and contented himself with carefully noting the results.  The local surgeon, an old, white-haired man, had just come down from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt’s room, and he reported that her injuries were serious, but not necessarily fatal.  The bullet had passed through the front of her brain, and it would probably be some time before she could regain consciousness.  On the question of whether she had been shot or had shot herself, he would not venture to express any decided opinion.  Certainly the bullet had been discharged at very close quarters.  There was only the one pistol found in the room, two barrels of which had been emptied.  Mr. Hilton Cubitt had been shot through the heart.  It was equally conceivable that he had shot her and then himself, or that she had been the criminal, for the revolver lay upon the floor midway between them.

“Has he been moved?” asked Holmes.

“We have moved nothing except the lady.  We could not leave her lying wounded upon the floor.”

“How long have you been here, Doctor?”

“Since four o’clock.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yes, the constable here.”

“And you have touched nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“You have acted with great discretion.  Who sent for you?”

“The housemaid, Saunders.”

“Was it she who gave the alarm?”

“She and Mrs. King, the cook.”

“Where are they now?”

“In the kitchen, I believe.”

“Then I think we had better hear their story at once.”

The old hall, oak-panelled and high-windowed, had been turned into a court of investigation.  Holmes sat in a great, old-fashioned chair, his inexorable eyes gleaming out of his haggard face.  I could read in them a set purpose to devote his life to this quest until the client whom he had failed to save should at last be avenged.  The trim Inspector Martin, the old, gray-headed country doctor, myself, and a stolid village policeman made up the rest of that strange company.

The two women told their story clearly enough.  They had been aroused from their sleep by the sound of an explosion, which had been followed a minute later by a second one.  They slept in adjoining rooms, and Mrs. King had rushed in to Saunders.  Together they had descended the stairs.  The door of the study was open, and a candle was burning upon the table.  Their master lay upon his face in the centre of the room.  He was quite dead.  Near the window his wife was crouching, her head leaning against the wall.  She was horribly wounded, and the side of her face was red with blood.  She breathed heavily, but was incapable of saying anything.