Langholm was no shot.

Yet now he peered through the glass--gasped--and opened one of the sliding panels with trembling hand.
There on a nail hung an old revolver, out of place, rusty, most conspicuous; and at a glance as like the relic in the Black Museum as one pea to another.

But Langholm took it down to make sure.

And the maker's name upon the barrel was the name that he had noted down at the Black Museum; the point gained, the last of the cardinal points postulated by the official who had shown him round.
The fortuitous discoverer of them all was leaving like a thief--more and more did Langholm feel himself the criminal--when the inner door opened and Steel himself stood beaming sardonically upon him.
"Sorry, Langholm, but I find I misled you about the bicycle.

They had taken it to the stables.