“Listen,” the clergyman cried again.  “You are not judging Jack as fairly as you would judge a common criminal.  You know better than I how often juries make mistakes—­why should you trust this jury to have made none?”

“I didn’t trust the jury.  I watched as I have never before known how to watch a case.  I felt my mind more clear and alert than common.”

“Alert!” he caught at the word.  “But alert on the side of terror—­abnormally clear to see what you dreaded.  Because you are fair-minded, because it has been the habit of your life to correct at once any conscious prejudice in your judgment, you have swayed to the side of unfairness to yourself, to Jack.  Uncle,” he flashed out, “would it tear your soul to have me state the case as I see it?  I might, you know—­I might bring out something that would make it look different.”

Almost a smile touched the gray lines of his face.  “If you wish.”

The young man drew himself into his chair and clasped his hands around his knee.  “Here it is.  Mr. Newbold, on the seventh floor of the Bruzon bachelor apartments, heard a shot at one in the morning, next his bedroom, in Ben Armstrong’s room.  He hurried into the public hall, saw the door wide open into Ben’s apartment, went in and found Ben shot dead.  Trying to use the telephone to call help, he found it was out of order.  So he rushed again into the hall toward the elevator with the idea of getting Dr. Avery, who lived below on the second floor.  The elevator door was open also, and a man’s opera-hat lay near it on the floor; he saw, just in time, that the car was at the bottom of the shaft, almost stepping inside, in his excitement, before he noticed this.  Then he ran down the stairs with Jack’s hat in his hand, and got Dr. Avery, and they found Jack at the foot of the elevator shaft.  It was known that Ben Armstrong and Jack had quarrelled the day before; it was known that Jack was quick-tempered; it is known that he bought that evening the pistol which was found on the floor by Ben, loaded, with one empty shell.  That’s the story.”

The steady voice stopped a moment and the young man shivered slightly; his look was strained.  Steadily he went on.

“That’s the story.  From that the coroner’s jury have found that Jack killed Ben Armstrong—­that he bought the pistol to kill him, and went to his rooms with that purpose; that in his haste to escape, he missed seeing that the elevator was down, as Mr. Newbold all but missed seeing it later, and jumped into the shaft and was killed instantly himself.  That’s what the jury get from the facts, but it seems to me they’re begging the question.  There are a hundred hypotheses that would fit the case of Jack’s innocence—­why is it reasonable to settle on the one that means his guilt?  This is my idea.  Jack and Ben Armstrong had been friends since boyhood and Jack, quick-tempered as he was, was warm-hearted and loyal.  It was like him to decide suddenly to go to Ben and make