As though he were reaching after a piece of paper to take down a statement, Dr. Fell drew open the drawer of his study table. Rampole followed the movement of his hand. The others did not see it, because they were looking at Saunders; but the rector was hungrily following every gesture the doctor made.
There was paper in the drawer. There was also the doctor's old-fashioned derringer pistol. It had been broken open, so that the chambers lay exposed; and as the lamp, light gleamed on it, Rampole saw that there was just one cartridge in the breech. Then the drawer closed.
Death had come into the room now.
"Sit down, gentlemen," urged Dr. Fell. Saunders' blank eyes were still on the closed drawer. The doctor glanced over at Robert Saunders, who was standing with a stupid expression on his brown face and his fists clenched. "Sit down, gentlemen. I must tell you how he did these murders, if he refuses to tell, himself. It isn't a pretty story. If you, Miss Starberth, would care to withdraw…?"
"Please go," said Rampole, in a low voice. "I'll go along."
"No!" she cried, and he knew that she was fighting down hysteria. "I've stood it so far. I won't go. You can't make me. If he did it, I want to know.."
The rector had recovered himself, though his voice was husky.
"By all means stay, Miss Starberth," he boomed. "You are the one with a right to hear this madman's story. He can't tell you — he, or anybody else, can't tell you how I could be sitting with him in this very house — and still throw your brother off the balcony of the Governor's Room."
Dr. Fell spoke loudly and sharply. He said:
"I didn't say you threw him from the balcony. He was never thrown from the balcony at all."