“I am beginning to remember the case,” interrupted Mitchell excitedly. “But the student’s name was not Barclay—it was——”
“Julian Meredith,” answered Barclay. “Shortly after my acquittal at the hands of the grand jury, my mother’s cousin left me his fortune with the proviso that I drop my last name and legally assume his, which I did.”
“Wait,” Mitchell held up an imperative hand, and Barclay paused. “Did not the proof of your somnambulistic state rest on a letter written by Dr. Paul Patterson and begun by him just before you shot him, in which he mentioned your sleep-walking propensities, and that you were at that moment walking about in his library, sound asleep?”
“That is correct,” acknowledged Barclay.
“And this letter was secured by the housekeeper who, instead of turning it over to the police, told its contents to Dr. Patterson’s fiancée who, in revenge for the killing of her lover, bribed the housekeeper to withhold the letter,” added Mitchell.
“Which the housekeeper did,” said Barclay, “until conscience made her confess to the police during my third trial.”
“And the name of Dr. Paul Patterson’s fiancée was——” Mitchell paused, and Barclay filled in the remainder of the sentence.
“Henrietta Patterson, a distant cousin.”
“And this Miss Henrietta Patterson was the only sister of James Patterson,” finished Mitchell. “And James Patterson died by your hand two nights ago.”
“He did not,” declared Barclay vehemently. “As God is my witness, I never knowingly raised my hand against any member of the Patterson family. You can prove no motive for such a crime.”