As the picture changed there was a quiver in the pulsating column, a hesitation with a quick fluttering at the bottom of the stroke, then the red line shot up full nine inches.
M. Paul glanced at the sheet and saw a perfect reproduction of private room Number Six in the Ansonia. Everything was there as on the night of the crime, the delicate yellow hangings, the sofa, the table set for two. And, slowly, as they looked, two holes appeared in the wall. Then a dim shape took form upon the floor, more and more distinctly until the dissolving lens brought a man's body into clear view, a body stretched face downward in a dark red pool that grew and widened, slowly straining and wetting the polished wood.
"Groener," said the magistrate, his voice strangely formidable in the shadows, "do you recognize this room?"
"No," said the prisoner impassively, but the column was pulsing wildly.
"You have been in this room?"
"Never."
"Nor looked through these eyeholes?"
"No."
"Nor seen that man lying on the floor?"
"No."