Mr. Edwards cleared his throat painfully. Determined as he was to let his rebellious boy take whatever punishment his mistaken course might bring, he now began to wish that the punishment would be light. His confidence that Jim needed only to be pushed a little to confess was somewhat shaken, and the charge was really serious. He felt a desire to explain, to palliate, to minimize. "Gentlemen," he said, "my boy's always been a good boy. I can't believe that he meant to hurt Lamoury or any one else. It must have been some accident--" "Facts, please," said Paige, crisply. Mr. Peaslee caught his breath indignantly. He had been entirely in sympathy with Mr. Edwards's soft mode of approaching his story. Paige seemed to him unfeeling. "I will answer any questions," said Mr. Edwards, stiffening. "Did you hear any shot fired?" began Paige. "Yes." "Where were you?" "I was asleep in the room above Jim's." "Was Jim in his room?" "I suppose so." "You suppose so. Don't you know?" "No, I don't know." "But to the best of your knowledge and belief he was there?" "Yes." "And the shot waked you?" "Yes." "What did you do on hearing the shot?" "I jumped to the window." "Tell what you saw, please." "I saw a man fall in the orchard, and hurried out to see if he was hurt. But he was gone when I got there." "Then what?" "I went to speak to Jim." "He was in his room, then, immediately after the shot?" "Yes." "Ah! And when you spoke to him, did he admit firing the shot?" "No." "Did he deny it?" "Yes." "Where was his gun?" "In the rack over the mantel." "In the rack over the mantel," repeated Paige, slowly, glancing at the jurors. "Did you examine it?" "Yes." "What was its condition? Did it show that it had been fired?" "No; it was clean." "It was clean," repeated Paige. "I understand that it was a double-barreled, muzzle-loading shotgun. Were there any rags about?" "Yes." "Where were they?" "One was in the ashes of the fireplace." "Look as if some one had tried to hide it?" "Yes"--reluctantly. "If it was that sort of gun, there must have been a shot-pouch and powder-flask. Where were they?" "In the drawer where Jim keeps them." "Everything looked, then, as if no shot had been fired?" "Yes." "Was there any one besides yourself and your son in the house?" "No." "Your housekeeper?" "She had stepped out." "To the best of your knowledge, then, there was no one about to fire the shot except your son?" "No." "That will do," said Paige, with an accent of finality. "That is," he added, with the air of one who observes a courteous form, "unless some of the grand jurors wish to ask a question."