“No! No! No—no—no! It was I, I tell you; I and no other! I shot her in my fit of madness!”
He collapsed suddenly, his head sinking on his breast, still gasping huskily forth his protestations.
“Look here, then,” said Lanagan. He held Brady’s magnifying glass over the hair—over the two hairs from the bracelet and then over the other specimens. The difference in the texture of the hair and a difference in colour were apparent under the microscope even in the ill-lighted room. That one of the three specimens was similar hair to that from the bracelet was apparent almost to the naked eye. Leslie’s face grew grave. Brady had absolute unbelief written in his eyes. Martin took one peering look furtively.
“That hair,” said Lanagan, indicating, “came from Elvira Hemingway’s bracelet. It lodged there in her last struggle with whoever killed her. This is your hair, Martin; compare it. This is Macondray’s; compare it. This is from the mother’s head; compare it. A red-haired person killed Elvira. It was not you—it was not—”
But Martin had sunk his head into his arms on the table with a groan. Lanagan waited; Leslie waited; Brady waited—experts all at the third degree. Mind was mauling matter—and mind was winning.
“It was not you,” continued Lanagan pitilessly as Martin lifted his haggard face with the look of pleading of an animal in his eyes. “It was not you—”
“But it was not she—not my mistress! It was me! Me!” The last words were a shriek; but the tax on his self-control had been too great. He fainted.
They threw water on Martin then and forced whiskey down his throat. He came to, staring in confusion from one face to the other.
“You have admitted the mother shot her own child,” said Lanagan rapidly, giving Martin no opportunity to recover his composure. “Now tell us the circumstances of this unnatural crime.”
Martin’s breakdown was complete.