The girl's hand shook in Mr. Amberley's hold, which had slowly tightened on it. The figure at the wheel did not move.

"Oh!" said Mr. Amberley. "I see."

"Let me go!" she said fiercely. "I - it - I didn't do it."

He retained his grasp on her wrist, but he was looking :it the dead man. The clothing, a dark lounge suit, was disarranged, as though someone had rifled the pockets; the striped shirt was stained with red, and a dark stain ran down the front of the waistcoat.

Mr. Amberley put out his free hand to touch the slack one inside the car. He did not appear to feel any repulsion. "Not cold," he said. "Well?"

"If you think I did it you're wrong," she said. "I found him like it. I tell you I wasn't even here!"

He ran his hand down over her coat, feeling for a possible weapon. She began to struggle, but found that she was quite powerless in his grip. His hand encountered something hard in the right pocket. Without ceremony he pulled out a small automatic.

She stood still. Hatred vibrated in her voice as she said: "If you take the trouble to inspect it you will find it's Fully loaded. The magazine holds seven. It isn't cocked."

"Are you in the habit of carrying loaded guns?" he inquired.

"That's my affair."

"Undoubtedly," he agreed, and lifting the gun sniffed gingerly at the end of the barrel. He let go her wrist and slipped out the magazine. As she had said, it held seven cartridges. Pulling back the breech, he satisfied himself that it was empty. Then he snapped the magazine home and handed the gun to the girl.

She took it in a somewhat unsteady clasp. "Thanks. Satisfied I didn't do it?"

"Quite satisfied that you didn't do it with that gun," he replied. "Probably you didn't do the actual shooting, but you know something about it."

"You're wrong. I don't know anything. He was like that when I found him."