“But there on the floor was the pistol from which two bullets had been fired.”
“Ah!” said the attorney. “Now, we have got to the very point by which the innocence of this prisoner is established. If two bullets were fired in that room, with the doors and windows closed, and one of them killed Collander, where did the other one go that did not kill him?”
He turned to the chief of police. He advanced toward him. His voice became low—became confidential—as of one who discusses a secret, covert, hidden matter with another.
“Now, Bobby,” he said, “I directed you to go over that room from top to bottom carefully, every inch of it, precisely as it stood after you had sealed the doors and windows. For what purpose? To determine, Bobby, what became of that other bullet. A bullet cannot vanish. It cannot disappear. It has to hit something. Did you find what it hit?”
The chief of police moved in his chair. His figure lost some aspect of its assurance. He became perplexed. His voice took on a sort of apology. He looked at the judge, at the prosecuting attorney, at the jury.
“I have to tell the truth about it,” he said finally. “I couldn’t find where that other bullet hit. I never could find it.”
“You went over everything in the room, didn’t you?” continued the Colonel. “You went over it with Doctor Hull and with Scalley. You went over every inch of it.”
“Yes,” replied the chief of police, “we went over every inch of it.”
“And you didn’t find the mark of the bullet?”
The chief of police addressed the judge.