“One moment, Doctor,” said Epstein. Turning to me, “You can give no explanation of this circumstance?” he whispered.—“None,” I answered.—To the witness, “Doctor, blood may be shed in divers ways, may it not? This blood on the handkerchief, for instance—it might have come from—say, a nose-bleed, eh?”
The surgeon smiled, hesitated, then replied, “Possibly, though not probably. Its quality is rather that of blood from a wound than that of blood from congested capillaries. But it is quite possible.”
“You can go, Doctor.”—To me, “Are you sure you didn’t have a nose-bleed on the night in question?”
“I know nothing at all about it.”
The next witness was a woman.
She said she was the janitress of the apartment-house, No.—East Fifty-first street. It was a portion of her duty as such to open the street-door when the bell was rung. On the evening of July 12th, she had opened the door and admitted the prisoner between seven and eight o’clock.
“Can you say at what hour the prisoner left the house?”
“Yes, sir, I can. It was a warm night, and me and my husband were seated out on the stoop for the sake of the breeze till late. Mr. Neuman went out a little before twelve o’clock.”
“He entered between seven and eight. He left at about midnight. Now, meanwhile, whom else did you admit?”
“No one at all. From half past seven until midnight no one went in except Mr. Neuman.”