“Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where the lad Fetlock Jones was at the time of the explosion?”
A thunderous response followed—
“In the billiard-room of this house!”
“Ah. And had he just come in?”
“Been there all of an hour!”
“Ah. It is about—about—well, about how far might it be to the scene of the explosions.”
“All of a mile!”
“Ah. It isn’t much of an alibi, ’tis true, but—”
A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts of “By jiminy, but he’s chain-lightning!” and “Ain’t you sorry you spoke, Sandy?” shut off the rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped his blushing face in pathetic shame. The inquisitor resumed:
“The lad Jones’s somewhat distant connection with the case” (laughter) “having been disposed of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the tragedy, and listen to what they have to say.”