The coroner.—"Did you expect him last night?"
Thomas hesitated perceptibly. "Yes, I did," he said.
"What made you?"
"Somebody tipped me off he might be coming. I'd rather not say who it was."
Coroner.—"Where did Walton's shot go?"
"Here," said the prisoner.
He fished in his pocket and drew out a Bible. The crowd craned their necks and swayed toward it eagerly.
"Why, that's mine," the coroner said.
It was, in truth, one that Bob had carried off as a Sunday School prize, when a boy, in Ohio. It was so stiff that the cover cracked when it was opened; but the leather binding was ripped and torn, and the leaves were plowed into pulp for three-fourths of its thickness. At this point the sheriff explained that the bullet had been deflected into the solid wood of the table. He had dug it out.
Coroner.—"Where did you get this here book?"