“This the second: 

“‘Was it the same that carried the arrow from one gallery to another?’”

Still no word; but Mr. Gryce, who was watching Mr. Roberts’ every move without apparently looking up from the knob of his own cane, turned resolutely aside; the strain was too great.  How long could such superhuman composure endure?  And which word of all that were to come would break it?

Meanwhile, the District Attorney was reading the third question.

“’Is it possible for an arrow, shot through the loophole made by the curving in of the vase, to reach the mark set for it by Mr. Travis’ testimony?’

“That question was answered when Mr. La Fleche made his experiments from behind the two pedestals.  It could not have been done from the one behind which Mr. Travis crouched, but was entirely possible from the rear of the other.”

With a wave of his hand, Mr. Roberts dismissed this, and the District Attorney proceeded.

“’Which of the men and women known to be in the museum when this arrow was delivered has enough knowledge of archery to string a bow?  A mark can be reached by chance, but only an accustomed hand can string a bow as unyielding as this one.’

“I will pause there, Mr. Roberts.  You may judge by our presence here to whose hand and to whose skill we have felt forced to ascribe this wanton shooting of a young and lovely girl.  We wish to be undeceived, and stand ready to listen to anything you may have to say in contradiction of these conclusions.  That is, if you wish to speak.  You know that you will be well within your rights to remain silent.  Likewise that if you decide to speak, it will be our painful duty to make record of your words for any use our duty may hereafter suggest.”

“I will speak.”  The words came with difficulty,—­but they came.  “Ask what you will.  Satisfy my curiosity, as well as your own.”

“First then, the bow.  It was brought up from the cellar a fortnight or more before it was used, and placed on end in the Curator’s office, where it was seen more than once by the woman who wipes up the floors.  The person who did this cast a shadow on the cellar wall,—­that shadow was seen.  Need I say more?  A man’s shadow is himself—­sometimes.”

“I brought up the bow; but I do not see how that implicates me in the use which was afterward made of it.  My reasons for bringing it up were innocent enough——­”

He stopped—­not even knowing that he stopped.  His eyes had been drawn to a small article which the District Attorney had dropped from his hand onto the table.  It looked like an end of black tape; but whether it was this or something quite different, it held the gaze of the man who was speaking, so completely that he forgot to go on.

The hush which followed paled the cheeks of more than one man there.  To release the tension, the District Attorney resumed his argument, observing quietly, and as if no interruption had occurred: