(Wednesday, June 19; 3.30 p.m.)
Captain Leacock walked into the room with a hopeless indifference of bearing. His shoulders drooped; his arms hung listlessly. His eyes were haggard like those of a man who had not slept for days. On seeing Major Benson, he straightened a little and, stepping toward him, extended his hand. It was plain that, however much he may have disliked Alvin Benson, he regarded the Major as a friend. But suddenly, realizing the situation, he turned away, embarrassed.
The Major went quickly to him and touched him on the arm.
"It's all right, Leacock," he said softly. "I can't think that you really shot Alvin."
The Captain turned apprehensive eyes upon him.
"Of course, I shot him." His voice was flat. "I told him I was going to."
Vance came forward, and indicated a chair.
"Sit down, Captain. The District Attorney wants to hear your story of the shooting. The law, you understand, does not accept murder confessions without corroborat'ry evidence. And since, in the present case, there are suspicions against others than
