“Have you ever seen this revolver in Lord Clydesfold’s possession?”
Bertie took it in his hand.
“Never. I do not believe it to be his. I feel sure that it is not his. It is quite unlike him to carry, or even possess a revolver. Why, you know, Cly,” he said, turning quickly and reproachfully to the prisoner, “you know you have always ridiculed the practice of carrying a revolver——”
“Silence!” cried the usher. “Do not address the prisoner.”
Bertie crimsoned, and a faint, sad smile passed over Faradeane’s face, as if he should say:
“It is all of no use, Bertie; give it up.”
Olivia clutched her father’s arm.
“You hear! The revolver is not his.”
The squire shook his head silently.
“Look at the revolver again. You see those initials? Is it usual for Lord Clydesfold to cut his initials—the initials of his assumed name—on articles belonging to him?”