"A question? Certainly," said Pym stiffly. "It was distinctly arranged between us that as we could not cross-examine the witnesses, we might vicariously cross-examine each other.
We are in a position to invite all such inquiry."
"I think you said," observed Moon absently, "that none of the prisoner's shots really hit the doctor."
"For the cause of science," cried the complacent Pym, "fortunately not."
"Yet they were fired from a few feet away."
"Yes; about four feet."
"And no shots hit the Warden, though they were fired quite close to him too?" asked Moon.
"That is so," said the witness gravely.
"I think," said Moon, suppressing a slight yawn, "that your Sub-Warden mentioned that Smith was one of the University's record men for shooting."
"Why, as to that--" began Pym, after an instant of stillness.
"A second question," continued Moon, comparatively curtly.
"You said there were other cases of the accused trying to kill people.
Why have you not got evidence of them?"
The American planted the points of his fingers on the table again.
"In those cases," he said precisely, "there was no evidence from outsiders, as in the Cambridge case, but only the evidence of the actual victims."
"Why didn't you get their evidence?"
"In the case of the actual victims," said Pym, "there was some difficulty and reluctance, and--"
"Do you mean," asked Moon, "that none of the actual victims would appear against the prisoner?"
"That would be exaggerative," began the other.
"A third question," said Moon, so sharply that every one jumped.
"You've got the evidence of the Sub-Warden who heard some shots; where's the evidence of the Warden himself who was shot at?
The Warden of Brakespeare lives, a prosperous gentleman."
"We did ask for a statement from him," said Pym a little nervously;
"but it was so eccentrically expressed that we suppressed it out of deference to an old gentleman whose past services to science have been great."
Moon leaned forward. "You mean, I suppose," he said, "that his statement was favourable to the prisoner."
"It might be understood so," replied the American doctor;
"but, really, it was difficult to understand at all.
In fact, we sent it back to him."
"You have no longer, then, any statement signed by the Warden of Brakespeare."
"No."
"I only ask," said Michael quietly, "because we have.
To conclude my case I will ask my junior, Mr. Inglewood, to read a statement of the true story--a statement attested as true by the signature of the Warden himself."
Arthur Inglewood rose with several papers in his hand, and though he looked somewhat refined and self-effacing, as he always did, the spectators were surprised to feel that his presence was, upon the whole, more efficient and sufficing than his leader's. He was, in truth, one of those modest men who cannot speak until they are told to speak; and then can speak well. Moon was entirely the opposite.
His own impudences amused him in private, but they slightly embarrassed him in public; he felt a fool while he was speaking, whereas Inglewood felt a fool only because he could not speak.
The moment he had anything to say he could speak; and the moment he could speak, speaking seemed quite natural.
Nothing in this universe seemed quite natural to Michael Moon.
"As my colleague has just explained," said Inglewood, "there are two enigmas or inconsistencies on which we base the defence.
The first is a plain physical fact. By the admission of everybody, by the very evidence adduced by the prosecution, it is clear that the accused was celebrated as a specially good shot.
Yet on both the occasions complained of he shot from a distance of four or five feet, and shot at him four or five times, and never hit him once.
That is the first startling circumstance on which we base our argument.
The second, as my colleague has urged, is the curious fact that we cannot find a single victim of these alleged outrages to speak for himself.
Subordinates speak for him. Porters climb up ladders to him.
But he himself is silent. Ladies and gentlemen, I propose to explain on the spot both the riddle of the shots and the riddle of the silence.
I will first of all read the covering letter in which the true account of the Cambridge incident is contained, and then that document itself.
When you have heard both, there will be no doubt about your decision.
The covering letter runs as follows:--
"Dear Sir,--The following is a very exact and even vivid account of the incident as it really happened at Brakespeare College. We, the undersigned, do not see any particular reason why we should refer it to any isolated authorship. The truth is, it has been a composite production; and we have even had some difference of opinion about the adjectives.
But every word of it is true.--We are, yours faithfully, "Wilfred Emerson Eames, "Warden of Brakespeare College, Cambridge.
"Innocent Smith.
"The enclosed statement," continued Inglewood, "runs as follows:--
"A celebrated English university backs so abruptly on the river, that it has, so to speak, to be propped up and patched with all sorts of bridges and semi-detached buildings.
The river splits itself into several small streams and canals, so that in one or two corners the place has almost the look of Venice. It was so especially in the case with which we are concerned, in which a few flying buttresses or airy ribs of stone sprang across a strip of water to connect Brakespeare College with the house of the Warden of Brakespeare.
"The country around these colleges is flat; but it does not seem flat when one is thus in the midst of the colleges.
For in these flat fens there are always wandering lakes and lingering rivers of water. And these always change what might have been a scheme of horizontal lines into a scheme of vertical lines.
Wherever there is water the height of high buildings is doubled, and a British brick house becomes a Babylonian tower.
In that shining unshaken surface the houses hang head downwards exactly to their highest or lowest chimney.
