mine. All this
is the supercaution of the so-called 'smart criminal.' It matches the
risk he took in returning to the body to hunt for the weapon. That was
why he was there when Webster found the body.

"The handle of the dagger matches the wood of the slat I've just
mentioned. You won't find that particular slat upstairs now. It was
taken out of the house the next day, broken into sections and packed in
his bag of golf-sticks. But there is proof in this room of the fact that
he and he only made the dagger.

"You'll find in the edge of the large blade of his penknife a nick,
triangular in shape, which left an unmistakable groove in the wood every
time he cut into it. That little groove shows, to the naked eye, on the
end of the shortened slat and on the handle of the dagger. If you doubt
it----"

"Thunder!" Crown interrupted, in an awed tone. "You're right!"

He had taken the dagger from his pocket and given it minute scrutiny. He
handed it now to Sloane.

Wilton, watching the scene with flaming eyes, sat motionless, his chin
thrust down hard upon his collar, his face shining as if it had been
polished with a cloth.

Sloane gave the dagger back to Crown before he spoke, in a wheezy,
shrill key: "They're there, the marks, the grooves!"

He did not look at Wilton.

Hastings straightened to his full stature, and looked toward Wilton.

"Now, Judge Wilton," he challenged, "you said you preferred to answer
the accusation here and now. Do you, still?"

Wilton, slowly raising the heavy lids of his eyes, like a man coming out
of a trance, presented to him and to the others a face which, in spite
of its flushed and swollen aspect, looked singularly bleak.

"It's not an accusation," he said in his roughened, grating voice. "It's
a network of suppositions, of theories, of impossibilities--a crazy
structure, all built on the rotten foundation of a previous misfortune."

"Arrest him, Crown!" Hastings commanded sharply.

Wilton tried to laugh, but his heavy lips merely worked in a crazy
barrenness of sound. With a vague, clumsy idea of covering up his
confusion, he started to light a cigar.

He stopped, hands in mid-air, when Crown, shambling to his feet, said:

"Judge, I've got to act. He's proved his case."

"Proved it!" Wilton made weak protest.

"If he hasn't, let's see your penknife."

Wilton put his hand into his trousers pocket, began the motion that
would have drawn out the knife, checked it, and withdrew