P. Who did fire it, then?
Mr. C. (hesitating). Why, I—you see—it was—my niece that fired it.
P. (looking around room). That’s a likely story. If she fired the pistol, where is she now?
Mr. C. She went out a few minutes ago.
P. You can’t come that dodge on me. It was only a moment ago that it was done, and there’s no one but you in the room, and I found you with the pistol in your hand. You must come along with me.
Mr. C. But I can’t—I’m sick.
P. (taking a look at him). You don’t appear to be dangerously sick. I guess you’re able to go with me.
Mr. C. But I had the doctor this morning. I’m quite feverish, and it might cause my death to go out.
P. If you’re sick you shall have a doctor to prescribe for you. Come along. (Takes him by shoulder.)
(Exeunt, L.)