"Saw the gun?" He looked blankly at the District Attorney.
"Yes, saw it, and recognized it as an army gun," persisted Markham, in a level voice. "Also, Major Benson saw you make a motion as if to draw a gun."
Leacock drew a deep breath, and set his mouth doggedly.
"I tell you, sir, I haven't a gun. . . . I lost it in France."
"Perhaps you didn't lose it, Captain. Perhaps you lent it to someone."
"I didn't, sir!" the words burst from his lips.
"Think a minute, Captain. . . . Didn't you lend it to someone?"
"No—I did not!"
"You paid a visit—yesterday—to Riverside Drive. . . . Perhaps you took it there with you."
Vance had been listening closely.
"Oh—deuced clever!" he now murmured in my ear.
Captain Leacock moved uneasily. His face, even with its deep coat of tan, seemed to pale, and he sought to avoid the implacable gaze of his questioner by concentrating his attention upon some object on the table. When he spoke his voice, heretofore truculent, was colored by anxiety.
"I didn't have it with me. . . . And I didn't lend it to anyone."
Markham sat leaning forward over the desk, his chin on his hand, like a minatory graven image.
"It may be you lent it to someone prior to that morning."
