Gilead looked up from his perusal of the paper without a word. “No, sir,” cried the young man--“before God I am guiltless. You must believe it, or there is an end of all hope for me.” “I believe it, Mr Dobell,” said the soft clear voice of Miss Halifax. Gilead smiled. “You have your advocate, you see, sir,” he said. “And now, if you please, you will give us your true version of this affair, the main particulars of which are of course known to me. It will spare you pain, perhaps, if I recall them. My Lerroux was known to have possessed a pistol of this description, he was known to be in embarrassed, even in desperate circumstances, and he had been heard to threaten self-destruction. At the same time, the mere fact of his possessing the pistol was held to be no necessary proof of his having used it against himself, and the hint of a second party in the studio gave an ugly complexion to the affair. The evidence as to Mr Lerroux’s habits was inconclusive, the medical testimony was inconclusive, and in the end, if I remember rightly, the Coroner’s Jury brought in a open verdict.” “They did, sir,” said the young man in great emotion; “but, for detective purposes, all reference to the clue which the police possessed had been withheld from them. But I knew what it was--_I knew. I knew that I had touched blood, and printed with it upon the doorpost the very damning sign that had already once marked me down._” “Sign!” exclaimed Gilead. “I had,” said the other, hardly able to articulate, “a cross-cut, an old wound, upon the thumb of my right hand which, once detected, could not fail to betray me.” “Your right hand!” Miss Halifax, standing a little apart, breathed out the words between pity and amazement.