I was not long in convincing myself that there was little to be discovered outside, and returning to the house seated myself in Bethel's easy-chair.
"Long," I called softly,—somehow since last night I could not bring myself to use the familiar "Jim," as of old.
He came from the inner room looking a mute inquiry.
"Long, you had ought to know something about your own gun; was that wound of Bethel's made at long or short range?"
He looked surprised at first, then a gleam of intelligence leaped to his eyes.
"What do you mean by short range?" he asked.
"Suppose Bethel to have stood on the steps outside, was the gun fired from behind that evergreen just beyond, and close to the gravel walk, or from some other point equally distant?"
He opened the door and glanced out at the tree, seeming to measure the distance with his eye.
"It was further away," he said, after a moment's reflection. "If the scoundrel had stood as you suggest, the muzzle of the gun would have been almost at Bethel's breast. The powder would have scorched his clothing and his flesh."