“No one will be hanged,” he repeated.
“This man, Archer—”
He made an impatient movement.
“Hasn’t got brains enough to wipe his fingerprints off the pistol.”
“Perhaps not,” I said dubiously.
Then I remembered something, and taking the little brownish crystal I had found in the wood from my pocket, I held it out to him and asked him what it was.
“H’m,” he hesitated. “Looks like picric acid. Where did you find it?”
“That,” I replied, “is Sherlock Holmes’s secret.”
He smiled.
“What is picric acid?”
“Well, it’s an explosive.”
“Yes, I know that, but it’s got another use, hasn’t it?”
He nodded.
“It’s used medically—in solution for burns. Wonderful stuff.”
I held out my hand, and rather reluctantly he handed it back to me.
“It’s of no consequence probably,” I said. “But I found it in rather an unusual place.”
“You won’t tell me where?”
Rather childishly, I wouldn’t.