“As a matter of fact,” I replied, “that is the very spot where he was hit.”
“And the bullet went out here,” continued Lucien, putting his finger just above his left hip.
“It is miraculous,” I exclaimed.
“And now,” he went on, “do you wish me to tell you the time he died?”
“Tell me!”
“At ten minutes past nine.”
“That will do, Lucien;” I said, “but I lose myself in questions. Give me a connected narrative of the events. I should prefer it.”
CHAPTER XIX.
LUCIEN settled himself comfortably in his arm-chair and looking at me fixedly, resumed:—