The Evil Shepherd
Francis met Shopland one morning about a week later, on his way from Clarges Street to
his chambers in the Temple. The detective raised his hat and would have passed on, but
Francis accosted him.
"Any progress, Mr. Shopland?" he enquired.
The detective fingered his small, sandy moustache. He was an insignificant-looking little
man, undersized, with thin frame and watery eyes. His mouth, however, was hard, and
there were some tell-tale little lines at its corners.
"None whatever, I am sorry to say, Mr. Ledsam," he admitted. "At present we are quite in
"You found the weapon, I hear?"
"It was just an ordinary service revolver, dating from the time of the war, exactly like a
hundred thousand others. The enquiries we were able to make from it came to nothing."
"Where was it picked up?"
"In the middle of the waste plot of ground next to Soto's. The murderer evidently threw it
there the moment he had discharged it. He must have been wearing rubber-soled shoes,
for not a soul heard him go."
Francis nodded thoughtfully.
"I wonder," he said, after a slight pause, "whether it ever occurred to you to interview
Miss Daisy Hyslop, the young lady who was with Bidlake on the night of his murder?"
"I called upon her the day afterwards," the detective answered.
"She had nothing to say?"
"Indirectly, of course," Francis continued, "the poor girl was the cause of his death. If she
had not insisted upon his going out for a taxicab, the man who was loitering about would
probably have never got hold of him."
The detective glanced up furtively at the speaker. He seemed to reflect for a moment.