“I call your attention, gentlemen of the jury, to the fact,” he said, slowly and impressively, “that these initials have been recently made. Now, Browne, I ask you—and be careful how you answer—were those initials upon this revolver when you picked it up?”
Every soul in the court waited for the answer.
“They were, sir,” said Browne.
Mr. Edgar drew a penknife from his pocket and handed it with the revolver to the jury.
“I ask you, gentlemen, to compare the engraving upon that pocketknife and the initials scratched upon the revolver. Further than that I cannot go, unless his lordship permits me to go into the dock and swear that the initials on that knife were engraved nine months ago.”
Mr. Sewell rose.
“My learned friend cannot be witness and counsel at the same time.”
“I am aware of that,” said Mr. Edgar, boldly. “I simply place the knife beside the revolver for the jury’s inspection.”
While this little scene had been enacting, Olivia had leaned forward with parted lips and dilating eyes, her heart throbbing with a faint hope. Then she sank back, her hands tightly clasped in her lap.
Inch by inch, with terrible sequence, Mr. Sewell unfolded his case, and minute by minute the case for the prosecution looked darker and more unanswerable.