"You recently made a threat on Mr. Alvin Benson's life, I believe."
Leacock started, and his fingers tightened over his knees. But before he could answer, Markham continued:
"I can tell you the occasion on which the threat was made,—it was at a party given by Mr. Leander Pfyfe."
Leacock hesitated; then thrust forward his jaw.
"Very well, sir; I admit I made the threat. Benson was a cad—he deserved shooting. . . . That night he had become more obnoxious than usual. He'd been drinking too much—and so had I, I reckon."
He gave a twisted smile, and looked nervously past the District Attorney out of the window.
"But I didn't shoot him, sir. I didn't even know he'd been shot until I read the paper next day."
"He was shot with an army Colt—the kind you fellows carried in the war," said Markham, keeping his eyes on the man.
"I know it," Leacock replied. "The papers said so."
"You have such a gun, haven't you, Captain?"
Again the other hesitated.
"No, sir." His voice was barely audible.
"What became of it?"
The man glanced at Markham, and then quickly shifted his eyes.
"I—I lost it . . . in France."
Markham smiled faintly.
"Then how do you account for the fact that Mr. Pfyfe saw the gun the night you made the threat?"
