“My own revolver.”
“Where is it?”
“I threw it out of the window.”
“Which window?”
“The—the bay window, in my den.”
“In this room?”
“Yes.”
“That window there?” Stone pointed to the big bay.
“Yes.”
“You were sitting there at the time of the shot, were you not, Miss Wheeler?” Stone turned to Maida, who, white-faced and trembling, listened to her father’s statements.