“Where is the connecting link?  How can we hope to establish it?  That is what it has now become my unfortunate duty to make plain to you.  Carleton Roberts drawing a bow to shoot an innocent schoolgirl is incredible.  In spite of all I have said and shown you, I do not believe him guilty of so inhuman an act.  He drew the bow, he shot the arrow, but——­Here allow me to pause a moment to present another aspect of the case as surprising as any you have yet heard.  You are aware—­we all are aware—­that the inquest we await has been held back for the purpose of giving Mrs. Taylor an opportunity to recover from the illness into which she has been thrown by what she saw and suffered that day.  Gentlemen, this Mrs. Taylor whom we all—­I will not even exclude myself from this category—­regarded not only as a casual visitor to the museum, but a stranger to all concerned, is, on the contrary, as I think you will soon see, more closely allied to the seemingly dispassionate director than even Madame Duclos.  The shock which laid her low was not that usually ascribed to her, or even the one she so fantastically offered to our acceptance; but the recognition of Carleton Roberts as the author of this tragedy,—­Carleton Roberts whom she not only knew well but had loved in days gone by, as sincerely as he had loved her.  This I now propose to prove to you by what I cannot but regard as incontestable evidence.”

Taking from a small portfolio which he carried another photograph, unmounted this time and evidently the work of an amateur, he laid it out before them.  The silence with which his last statement had been received, the kind of silence which covers emotions too deep for audible expression, remained unbroken save for an involuntary murmur or so, as the District Attorney and his assistant bent over this crude presentation of something—­they hardly knew what—­which this old but long trusted detective was offering them in substantiation of the well-nigh unbelievable statement he had just made.

[Illustration]

“This, gentlemen,” he went on, as he pointed to the following, “is the copy of a label pasted on the back of a certain Swiss clock to be seen at this very moment on the wall of Mr. Roberts’ own bedroom in his home in Belport, Long Island.  He prizes this clock.  He has been heard to say that it goes where he goes and stays where he stays, and as it is far from a valuable one either from intrinsic worth or from any accuracy it displays in keeping time, the reason for this partiality must lie in old associations and the memories they invoke.  A love token.  Can you not see that it is such from the couplet scrawled across it?  If not, just take a look at the initials appended to that couplet.  May I ask you to read them?”

The District Attorney stooped, adjusted his glasses and slowly read out: 

“C.  C. R.”

“Carleton Clifton Roberts,” explained Mr. Gryce.  Then slowly, “The other two if you will be so good.”