the barrel; it is clean and bright, and shows no evidence of a bullet having passed out of it very lately; that is because it has been cleaned. But now, observe the face of the cylinder: what do you see there?’
‘I see a faint line of smut near one of the chambers.’
‘Just so; show it to the gentlemen.’
It was immediately handed down.
‘That faint line of smut, on the edge of one of the chambers, is the tell-tale, sirs. A bullet passing out always leaves smut behind. The man who fired this, remembering the fact, cleaned the barrel, but forgot the cylinder.’ And stepping aside he folded his arms.
‘Jerusalem!’ spoke out a rough, hearty voice, ‘isn’t that wonderful!’ This exclamation came from a countryman who had stepped in from the street, and now stood agape in the doorway.
It was a rude but not altogether unwelcome interruption. A smile passed round the room, and both men and women breathed more easily. Order being at last restored, the officer was requested to describe the position of the stand, and its distance from the library table.
‘The library table is in one room, and the stand in another. To reach the former from the latter, one would be obliged to cross Mr Leavenworth’s bedroom in a diagonal direction, pass through the passageway separating that one apartment from the other, and—’
‘Wait a moment; how does this table stand in regard to the door which leads from the bedroom into the hall?’
‘One might enter that door, pass directly round the foot of the bed to the stand, procure the pistol, and cross half-way over to the passageway, without being seen by anyone sitting or standing in the library beyond.’
‘Holy Virgin!’ exclaimed the horrified cook, throwing her apron over her head as if to shut out some dreadful vision. ‘Hannah niver would have the pluck for that; niver, niver!’ But Mr Gryce, laying a heavy hand on the woman, forced her back into her seat, reproving and calming her at the same time, with a dexterity marvellous to behold. ‘I beg your pardons,’ she cried deprecatingly to those around; ‘but it niver was Hannah, niver!’
The clerk from Bohn’s here being dismissed, those assembled took the opportunity of making some change in their position, after which, the name of Mr Harwell was again called. That person rose with manifest reluctance. Evidently the preceding testimony had either upset some theory of his, or indubitably strengthened some unwelcome suspicion.
‘Mr Harwell,’ the coroner began, ‘we are told of the existence of a pistol belonging to Mr Leavenworth, and upon searching, we discover it in his room. Did you know of his possessing such an instrument?’
‘I did.’
‘Was it a fact generally known in the house?’
‘So it would seem.’
‘How was that? Was he in the habit of leaving it around where anyone could see it?’
‘I cannot say; I can only acquaint you with the manner in which I myself became aware of its existence.’
‘Very well, do so.’
‘We were once talking about firearms. I have some taste that way, and have always been anxious to possess a pocket-pistol. Saying something of the kind to him one day, he rose from his seat and, fetching me this, showed it to me.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Some few months since.’
‘He has owned this pistol, then, for some time?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Is that the only occasion upon which you have ever seen it?’
‘No, sir’—the secretary blushed—‘I have seen it once since.’
‘When?’
‘About three weeks ago.’
‘Under what circumstances?’
The secretary dropped his head, a certain drawn look making itself suddenly visible on his countenance.
‘Will you not excuse me, gentlemen?’ he asked, after a moment’s hesitation.
‘It is impossible,’ returned the coroner.
His face grew even more pallid and deprecatory. ‘I am obliged to introduce the name of a lady,’ he hesitatingly declared.
‘We are very sorry,’ remarked the coroner.
The young man turned fiercely upon him, and I could not help wondering that I had ever thought him commonplace. ‘Of Miss Eleanore Leavenworth!’ he cried.
At that name, so uttered, everyone started but Mr Gryce; he was engaged in holding a close and confidential confab with his finger-tips, and did not appear to notice.
‘Surely it is contrary to the rules of decorum and the respect we all feel for the lady herself to introduce her name into this discussion,’ continued Mr Harwell. But the coroner still insisting upon an answer, he refolded his arms (a movement indicative of resolution with him), and began in a low, forced tone to say:
‘It is only this, gentlemen. One afternoon, about three weeks since, I had occasion to go to the library at an unusual hour. Crossing over to the mantelpiece for the purpose of procuring a penknife which I had carelessly left there in the morning, I heard a noise in the adjoining room. Knowing that Mr Leavenworth was out, and supposing the ladies to be out also, I took the liberty of ascertaining who the intruder was; when what was my astonishment to come upon Miss Eleanore Leavenworth, standing at the side of her uncle’s bed, with his pistol in her hand. Confused at my indiscretion, I attempted to escape without being observed; but in vain, for just as I was crossing the threshold, she turned and, calling me by name, requested me to explain the pistol to her. Gentlemen, in order to do so, I was obliged to take it in my hand; and that, sirs, is the only other occasion upon which I ever saw or handled the pistol of Mr Leavenworth.’ Drooping his head, he waited in indescribable agitation for the next question.
‘She asked you to explain the pistol to her; what do you mean by that?’
‘I mean,’ he faintly continued, catching his breath in a vain effort to appear calm, ‘how to load, aim, and fire it.’
A flash of awakened feeling shot across the faces of all present. Even the coroner showed sudden signs of emotion, and sat staring at the bowed form and pale countenance of the man before him, with a peculiar look of surprised compassion, which could not fail of producing its effect, not only upon the young man himself, but upon all who saw him.
‘Mr Harwell,’ he at length inquired, ‘have you anything to add to the statement you have just made?’
The secretary sadly shook his head.
‘Mr Gryce,’ I here whispered, clutching that person by the arm and dragging him down to my side; ‘assure me, I entreat you—’ but he would not let me finish.
‘The coroner is about to ask for the young ladies,’ he quickly interposed. ‘If you desire to fulfil your duty towards them, be ready, that’s all.’
Fulfil my duty! The simple words recalled me to myself. What had I been thinking of; was I mad? With nothing more terrible in mind than a tender picture of the lovely cousins bowed in anguish over the remains of one who had been as dear as a father to them, I slowly rose, and upon demand being made for Miss Mary and Miss Eleanore Leavenworth, advanced and said that, as a friend of the family—a petty lie, which I hope will not be laid up against me—I begged the privilege of going for the ladies and escorting them down.
Instantly a dozen eyes flashed upon me, and I experienced the embarrassment of one who, by some unexpected word or action, has drawn upon himself the concentrated attention of a whole room.
But the permission sought being almost immediately accorded, I was speedily enabled to withdraw from my rather trying position, finding myself, almost before I knew it, in the