“Oh, no,” Doctor Stanford smiled. “The ribs are a bit higher in the back than they are in front. The arrow was pointing downward—dropping a little.”
“Would you say that it struck him with considerable force?” Landis persisted.
“With terrific force!” retorted the doctor. “Mr. Harrison is deep chested and his bones are heavy and strong. But the arrow went clear through him, breaking one of the heaviest ribs in two places!”
“Then it wasn’t a woman who shot him!” rumbled Bernard. He looked at Graham inquiringly.
“Probably you’re right,” the lawyer admitted. “It isn’t likely that a woman could draw a bow far enough to shoot an arrow that hard.”
Landis moved nearer the dead man’s head, dropped to one knee and looked up at the doctor.
“Graham tells me the broken shaft of the arrow is still under him. I’d like to see it. Help me sit him up, will you? And while we’re at it we might as well have a look at the wound.”
Doctor Stanford kneeled on the far side and between them they lifted the body of Harrison to a sitting position. The movement revealed a small bloodstain, perhaps an inch across, matting the carpet. Bisecting this stain lay the shaft of an arrow, snapped off short and crushed into the thick pile. It looked two feet long or more and had lain parallel with the body, the feathered end of it at the base of the dead man’s spine.
“There’s ten or eleven inches of it still in his body,” the doctor explained.
“Anybody touched this shaft?” inquired Landis.