"This game doesn't enthrall me, either," Markham protested. "I'd much prefer 'London Bridge'."
Nevertheless he made the measurement.
"Four feet, eight and a half inches," he announced indifferently.
Vance laid a cigarette on the rug at a point directly beneath the knot.
"We now know the exact height at which the pistol was held when it was fired. . . . You grasp the process by which this conclusion was reached, I'm sure."
"It seems rather obvious," answered Markham.
Vance again went to the door and called Snitkin.
"The District Attorney desires the loan of your gun for a moment," he said. "He wishes to make a test."
Snitkin stepped up to Markham and held out his pistol wonderingly.
"The safety's on, sir: shall I shift it?"
Markham was about to refuse the weapon when Vance interposed.
"That's quite all right. Mr. Markham doesn't intend to fire it—I hope."
When the man had gone Vance seated himself in the wicker chair, and placed his head in juxtaposition with the bullet-hole.
"Now, Markham," he requested, "will you please stand on the spot where the murderer stood, holding the gun directly above that cigarette on the floor, and aim delib'rately at my left temple. . . . Take care," he cautioned, with an engaging smile, "not to pull the trigger, or you will never learn who killed Benson."
