Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“I went over and examined it — and found, to my surprise, that it had been obviously tampered with. Exactly where the muzzle of the revolver appears in the picture, a neat little round hole had been cut — just wide enough to take the muzzle of a real revolver. The original piece of canvas had subsequently been replaced and the spot painted over — and at no very recent date. Examined through a magnifying glass it was obvious.”

As she paused a little sigh of amazement went round the court. She went on:

“I drew the inspector’s attention to it and we took down the picture to find that the wall behind it had recently been repapered. At my suggestion we then rang up the chief commissioner who came up immediately.”

Again she paused for a moment, but neither judge nor counsel would have dreamed of breaking into that breathless, waiting silence.

“The three of us then went to the room that is known as the butler’s pantry. In that room there are a lot of colored prints nailed to the walls. Behind one of them we found the wall had also recently been repapered. Before attempting to remove it we took certain measurements — the two rooms adjoin — and found that the picture in one room was directly opposite to the picture in the other.

“We then proceeded to remove the wall paper on both sides. Inside we found a large cavity opening up communication between the pantry and the library. At the end nearest to the pantry we found a revolver and a packet of bank notes.”

“Those notes will be produced, my lord,” exclaimed Everest, “and the jury will find that they bear the identical numbers given by the prisoner. They are the same notes that he swore he paid to the deceased in exchange for his letters.”

In the deathly silence that followed the judge turned to Daphne.

“Have you anything more to tell us, Miss Wrayne?”

“No, that’s all, my lord!”

“I don’t know whether my learned friend who leads for the prosecution wishes to cross-examine!” murmured Everest.

The attorney general shook his head.

“Not if you are calling those two other witnesses you spoke of just now,” he answered.

“Well, I am!”

The judge turned to Daphne.

“Thank you, Miss Wrayne,” he said in kindly tones. “I don’t wonder now that one hears such a lot about the Adjusters.”

Daphne flushed with pleasure.

“Thank you, my lord,” she answered.

As she left the box a little buzz of admiration rippled over the court.

Inspector Montarthar followed, corroborating Daphne’s story in every detail. Then came the chief commissioner of the police, a well set up military-looking man who told the court that the Adjusters had on several previous occasions rendered valuable service to him and his colleagues. He confirmed every point of Daphne’s narrative. Then when he had resumed his seat Martin Everest rose once more.

“I have one more witness to call, my lord,” he said. “Will John Henry Robinson please come forward?”

In the silence that followed a short white-bearded man walked to the witness box, took the oath, faced the barrister.

“You are a gunsmith?”

“I am.”

“You are in business at 942 High Street, Kensington?”

“That is so.”

“Will you take that revolver in your hand,” revolver handed to him, “and tell the court if you recognize it?”

“I do. I sold it from my shop about six months ago. My private mark is on it.”

Breathless suspense in court.

“Would you recognize the man to whom you sold it if you were to see him again?”

“I am pretty sure I should.”

“Why?” asked the judge.

“Because he came to me, my lord, and I told him I couldn’t sell him a revolver without a license. I put him down as a foreigner from his appearance. He came again a few days afterward with the necessary license. I noticed then that it bore an unmistakably English name — Frederick Robinson.”

“Can you see him in this court?” asked Martin Everest. “Take time.”

The gunsmith’s eyes traveled slowly round the court.

“May I ask that man over there,” he said slowly, “to stand up? I can’t see him quite clearly. That man in the gray overcoat sitting two rows behind counsel.”

A little murmur ran over the court, for in a second every one had seen that it was the butler.

“Stand up, please!” directed the judge. Slowly, very slowly, the butler rose to his feet.

“That is the man I sold the revolver to,” said the witness.

As Daphne was getting into her car outside the Central Criminal Court, the center of a crowd that surged about her shouting congratulations, Inspector Montarthar came hurrying down the steps.

“Miss Wrayne, I thought you’d like to know. Antonio’s been arrested.”

“Splendid. You’ll probably find there’s revenge or something at the back of it.”

The inspector leaned forward lowering his voice.

“We’ve found out quite a lot about him since you put us on the track. It seems Wollstein got him into his clutches, years ago.”