After a while, Anton opened the gunroom door from
the inside, and stood in the doorway, blocking it. He said: 'You'd better
not come in. There's been an accident, but it's too late to do anything.
Lane's shot himself with one of those damned pistols; I always knew
something like this would happen.'
"Well, I simply elbowed him out of the way and went in, and the others
followed me. By this time, the uproar had penetrated to the rear of the
house, and the servants--Walters, the butler, and Mrs. Horder, the
cook--had joined us. We found Lane inside, lying on the floor, shot
through the forehead. Of course, he was dead. He'd been sitting on one of
these old cobblers' benches of the sort that used to be all the thing for
cocktail-tables; he had his tools and polish and oil and rags on it. He'd
fallen off it to one side and was lying beside it. He had a revolver in
his right hand, and an oily rag in his left."
"Was it the revolver he'd brought home with him?" Rand asked.
"I don't know," she replied. "He showed me this Confederate revolver when
he came home, but it was dirty and dusty, and I didn't touch it. And I
didn't look closely at the one he had in his hand when he was ... on the
floor. It was about the same size and design; that's all I could swear
to.
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