From his coat pocket Britz produced the weapon, a gleaming steel revolver of the hammerless variety.
"Do you recognize it?" he inquired, extending it toward Collins.
Collins's hand did not reach for the weapon. All his confidence had vanished. Fear seemed to paralyze him.
"That isn't all," proceeded the detective with aggravating assurance. "The chambers in this revolver were filled from a box of fifty cartridges. There are five chambers. After the shooting the chambers were emptied and the unused shells returned to the box. Here is the box."
This time Britz offered Collins a small pasteboard box, but Collins shrank from it as if afraid it might explode in his hand.
"You will observe," Britz went on, "that there are forty-nine cartridges left in the box. One is missing—the one that was exploded. Now Collins"—the detective's jaw snapped viciously—"you've decided to remain silent! Well, I've shown you some mute witnesses whose testimony will be understood perfectly by a jury."
All the blood had drained from Collins's face. A violent tremor racked his frame.
"Where'd you get them?" he asked helplessly.
"In your house," answered the detective. "I searched the premises this afternoon."
Collins looked appealingly from the detective to his friends. They had listened to Britz's recital with impassive countenances, and their expressions did not change as they met Collins's gaze.