A great wave of excitement swept over the room at these remarks.  “What!” each said to himself, “is it possible that this lawyer will try to prove that Latour, despite his circumstantial confession, did not commit the murder after all?” We did not dare let such a thought take hold of us, yet could not see what else could explain Maitland’s remarks.  Is it any wonder, therefore, that we all waited breathlessly for him to continue?  M. Godin’s face was dark and lowering.  It was evident he did not propose to have his skill as a detective,—­and with it the Darrow reward,—­set aside without a struggle—­at least so it seemed to me.  The room was as quiet as the grave when Maitland continued.

“I shall show you that M. Godin’s testimony is utterly unreliable, and, moreover, that it is intentionally so.”

This was a direct accusation, and at it M. Godin’s face became of ashen pallor.  I felt that he was striving to control his anger and saw the effort that it cost him as he fastened Maitland with a stiletto-like look that was anything but reassuring.  George did not appear to notice it and continued easily: 

“I shall prove to you beyond a doubt that, in the actual murder of John Darrow, only one person was concerned,—­by which I mean, that only one person was outside the east window when he met his death.  I shall also show that M. Latour was not, and could not by any possibility have been, that person. [At this juncture Browne arose and walked toward the door.  He was very pale and looked anything but well.  I thought he was going to leave, but he reseated himself at the back of the room near the door.] I shall convince you that M. Latour’s description of the way the murder was committed is false.”

All eyes were turned toward Latour, but he made no sign either of affirmation or dissent.  With his eyes closed and his hands falling listlessly in front of him, he sat in a half-collapsed condition, like one in a stupor.  M. Godin shifted uneasily in his chair, as if he could not remain silent much longer.  Maitland proceeded with calm deliberation: 

“Mr. Clinton Browne—­”

But he did not finish the sentence.  At the name “Mr. Clinton Browne” he was interrupted by a sudden commotion at the rear of the room, followed by a heavy fall which shook the whole apartment.  We all turned and looked toward the door.  Several men had gathered about someone lying upon the floor, and one of them was throwing water in the face of the prostrate man.  Presently he revived a little, and they bore him out into the cooler air of the corridor.  It was Clinton Browne.  The great tension of the trial, his own strong emotions, and the closeness of the room had doubtless been too much for him.  I could not but marvel at it, however.  Here were delicate women with apparently little or no staying power, and yet this athlete, with the form of a Mars and the fibre of a Hercules, must be the first to succumb.  Verily, even physicians are subject to surprises!