Barrison, indeed, was listening with gradually increasing interest. This method which was being employed by Inspector Lowry, sometimes known as the “reconstruction-of-the-crime” method, was rather old-fashioned, and many younger and more modern men preferred the more scientific, analytical, and deductive ways of solving mysteries. Yet there was something distinctly fascinating, even illuminating, about the inspector’s simple, sure-fire fashion of setting his stage and perhaps his trap at one and the same time. Barrison felt his own veins tingle with the leap of his roused blood. “Barrison,” said Lowry pleasantly, “just go up there on those steps, and be Mortimer for a minute. So!” The younger man obeyed with alacrity. “Miss Merivale, was that about where he stood?” “Yes.” “And you are sure that you yourself were just where you are now?” “Yes.” “Just there, you know. Not more to the right?” She glanced at him with faint wonder. “I think I may have been a little more to the right,” she said. “That is, to your right, and my left. But I don’t see why you thought so—and it doesn’t matter, does it?” “And you, Mr. Crane,” pursued the inspector, paying no attention to her last words, “you are absolutely certain of where you stood?” “Absolutely.” “Ah, yes, quite so; quite so!” murmured Lowry, looking dreamily into space. Suddenly he faced about and said sharply: “Mr. Crane, will you kindly lift your right hand and point it at Mr. Barrison? Just so; exactly! At that range, you could hardly have missed him.” Norman Crane clenched his fists in a white heat of indignation. “You dare to imply——” “Only what your fiancée has already been fearing,” said the inspector calmly, “that your position in this matter is, to say the least, not less unpleasant than hers. You were, as is evident, only a few feet away from the man.” Crane started to speak, but checked himself. Barrison thought he knew what he would have said; or, if he was not going to say it, he should have, for the direction of the bullet was a thing which ought to be easily determined. But something prevented the young actor from uttering anything resembling a protest; it was simple to see what it was. Sybil Merivale, however unwillingly or unconsciously, had given color to suspicion against him by the low, heart-broken sobbing into which she had broken at the bare suggestion. After one quick look at the obvious distress of the young girl whom he loved so well, Norman Crane suddenly changed his antagonistic attitude. He faced the detectives quietly, and said to them, in a manner that was not without dignity: “Very well. I admit that it looks bad for me. I suppose that is enough? If you feel that you have any case at all against me, I shall make no trouble. Do you mean to arrest me?” The inspector looked at him rather more directly than was his wont, and also longer.