“Mr. Barclay,” Mitchell slipped his hand inside a pocket and produced a rag, and at sight of it Ethel shivered. “Charles, the butler, swears that you used this powder-stained flannel to clean your revolver the morning after Patterson’s murder—and he was killed by a thirty-two revolver bullet, such as you use in your revolver.”
“I did not know that Patterson was killed by a thirty-two caliber revolver bullet until after the inquest,” retorted Barclay. “I thought, as did everyone else, that he had been killed by the explosion of Ogden’s rifle cartridges, and I cleaned that revolver before the inquest.”
Mitchell shook his head. “That fact does not help you,” he argued. “It only goes to show that you knew before the others that Patterson was killed by a thirty-two caliber bullet and that you cleaned your revolver so that the bullet could not be said to have been fired from your revolver. And you, with your medical knowledge and past experience in a murder trial, knew that the probing of the wound would establish the fact that Patterson had been shot by a thirty-two caliber bullet. You were simply forehanded in cleaning your revolver.”
Before Mitchell had finished speaking Ethel was on her feet, her eyes flashing, and she turned and addressed her companions, indignation in tone and gesture.
“In his heckling of Mr. Barclay, the detective has forgotten to inquire at whom Mr. Barclay fired,” she said, and as Barclay looked up at her his haggard face was transformed.
“Thanks,” he exclaimed, springing to his feet. “As I reached the back hall on my return from my fruitless search for Ito, I made out dimly a figure advancing head down, half crouching under the hall light. Thinking it might be Ito overcome by the smoke, I raised my revolver just as the fusillade of shots rang out, and instinctively I pulled the trigger of my revolver, supposing I was attacked.”
“Ah, then you contend that you accidentally killed James Patterson,” asked Mitchell incredulously. “It strikes me that you are working the accident plea rather fine.”
“I have not used it in this instance,” declared Barclay hotly. “I did not shoot James Patterson.”
“Then the man advancing under the light was not Patterson?”
“Yes, it was,” admitted Barclay. “But you will all recall that Patterson was shot in the back; whereas, when I fired that revolver I stood directly in front of him.”