"What is it?" asked his young wife, trembling with the horror of it all.
Challoner gripped her arm with painful force.
"I did not kill Richard Hargraves!" he cried in sudden joy. "No, I did not kill him!"
Miriam caught her husband about the neck and tried to soothe him.
"Laurie," she said gently, "you're beside yourself."
"No," he answered calmly enough, though evidently labouring under great excitement, "no, I know! I did not kill Hargraves! It's the first time I have thought about it. Five years ago everything was muddled—life was a muddle then; and on that night at Cradlebaugh's everything was hazy. But now, Miriam, it's as clear as day. I can see it—I do see it!" He lifted his arm, his forefinger crooked significantly, and declared:—
"I shot...."
"Yes," she said eagerly, "you shot...."
"I shot at Hargraves, but I did not hit him. It's all come back; I can see it now!" And pointing toward the junction of the side wall and the ceiling, he went on to explain: "The bullet lodged in the panel of the wall. Hargraves put up his arm like this—I meant to kill him and I shot; but I didn't hit him. It was the last thing I remembered before I toppled over in the big chair—that, and his starting over toward the door. I remember that. It's all come back in a flash. But I never saw him after that."
"Yet," she protested, "you confessed...."