“I say—I’m afraid we—er—have made rather a mess of things. Fellow was as strong as an ox and we went fairly waltzing around.”
The condition of the room was clear proof of this statement. Everything light and breakable within a range of twelve feet that could be broken had been broken.
“And what happened then?”
But Jimmy was looking round for something.
“Where’s Leopold? The pride of the blue-nosed automatics?”
Battle indicated the pistol on the table.
“Is this yours, Mr. Thesiger?”
“That’s right. That’s little Leopold. How many shots have been fired?”
“One shot.”
Jimmy looked chagrined.
“I’m disappointed in Leopold,” he murmured. “I can’t have pressed the button properly, or he’d have gone on shooting.”
“Who shot first?”
“I did, I’m afraid,” said Jimmy. “You see, the man twisted himself out of my grasp suddenly. I saw him making for the window and I closed my finger down on Leopold and let him have it. He turned in the window and fired at me and—well, I suppose after that I took the count.”
He rubbed his head rather ruefully.
But Sir Stanley Digby was suddenly alert.