is slightly elevated position upon the platform,
pointed a finger at the singed and blackened puncture upon the temple of
the thing that was once Dacre Wynne. He pointed also to the wound in the
head of Collins.

"It is apparent to all present," he began in his flat voice, "that death
has been caused in each case by a shot in the head. That the two men were
killed similarly is something in the nature of a coincidence. The
revolver that killed them was not the same in both cases. In that of Mr.
Wynne we have a bullet wound of an extremely small calibre. We have,
indeed, the actual bullet. We also have, so we think, the revolver that
fired the shot. In the case of James Collins there has been no proof
and no evidence of any one whom we know being concerned. Therefore we
will take the case of the man Dacre Wynne first. He was killed by a
revolver-shot in the temple, and death was--or should have
been--instantaneous. We will call the prisoner to speak first."

He lifted a revolver from the table and held it in the hollow of his big
palm.

"This revolver is yours?" he said, peering up under his shaggy eyebrows
into Merriton's face.

"It is."

"Very good. There has been, as you see, one shot fired from it. Of the
six chambers one is empty." He reached down and picked up a small
something and held it in the hollow of the other hand, balancing one
against the other as he talked. "Sir Nigel, I ask you. This we recognize
as a bullet which belongs to this same revolver, the revolver which you
have recognized and claimed as your own. It is identical with those that
are used in the cartridges of your revolver, is it not?"

Merriton bent his head. His eyes had a dumb, hurt look, but over the
crowded room his voice sounded firm and steady.

"It is."

"Then I take it that, as this bullet was extracted from the head of the
dead man, and as this revolver which you gave to the police yourself, and
from which you say that you fired a shot that night, that you are guilty
of his murder. Is it not so?"

"I am not guilty."

"H'm." For a moment there was silence. Over the room came the sound of
scratching pencils and pens, the shuffle of someone's foot, a swift
intake of the breath--no more. Then the coroner spoke again.

"Tell us, then," he said, "your version of what took place that night."

And Merriton told it, told it with a ring in his voice, his head high,
and with eyes that flashed and shone with the cause he was pleading