triangular in shape, which left an unmistakable groove in the wood every
time he cut into it. That little groove shows, to the naked eye, on the
end of the shortened slat and on the handle of the dagger. If you doubt
it----"
"Thunder!" Crown interrupted, in an awed tone. "You're right!"
He had taken the dagger from his pocket and given it minute scrutiny. He
handed it now to Sloane.
Wilton, watching the scene with flaming eyes, sat motionless, his chin
thrust down hard upon his collar, his face shining as if it had been
polished with a cloth.
Sloane gave the dagger back to Crown before he spoke, in a wheezy,
shrill key: "They're there, the marks, the grooves!"
He did not look at Wilton.
Hastings straightened to his full stature, and looked toward Wilton.
"Now, Judge Wilton," he challenged, "you said you preferred to answer
the accusation here and now. Do you, still?"
Wilton, slowly raising the heavy lids of his eyes, like a man coming out
of a trance, presented to him and to the others a face which, in spite
of its flushed and swollen aspect, looked singularly bleak.
"It's not an accusation," he said in his roughened, grating voice. "It's
a network of suppositions, of theories, of impossibilities--a crazy
structure, all built on the rotten foundation of a previous misfortune."
"Arrest him, Crown!" Hastings commanded sharply.
Wilton tried to laugh, but his heavy lips merely worked in a crazy
barrenness of sound. With a vague, clumsy idea of covering up his
confusion, he started to light a cigar.
He stopped, hands in mid-air, when Crown, shambling to his feet, said:
"Judge, I've got to act. He's proved his case."
"Proved it!" Wilton made weak protest.
"If he hasn't, let's see your penknife."
Wilton put his hand into his trousers pocket, began the motion that
would have drawn out the knife, checked it, and withdrew his hand empty.
He managed a mirthless, dreary laugh, a rattling sound that fell, dead
of any feeling, from his grimacing lips.
"No, by God!" he refused. "I'll give it to neither of you. I don't have
to!"
In that moment, he fell to pieces. With his thick shoulders dropping
forward, he became an inert mass bundled against the table edge. The
blood went out of his face, so that his cheeks hollowed, and shadows
formed under his eyes. He was like the victim of a quick consumption.
Crown's eyes were on Hastings.
"That's enough," the old man said shortly.
"Too much," agreed Crown. "Judge, there's no bail--on a murder charge."
"I'm very glad," Mrs. Brace commented, a terrible satisfaction in her
voice. "He pays me--at last."
In the music room Dr. Garnet had just given Lucille and Hastings a
favourable report on Berne Webster's condition.
"I should so like to tell him," she said, her glance entreating; "if
you'll let me! Wouldn't he get well much faster if he knew it--knew the
suspense was all over--that neither he nor father's suspected any more?"
"I think," the doctor gave his opinion with exaggerated deliberation,
"it might--in fact, it really will be his best medicine."
She thanked him, stars swimming in her eyes.