There was a drawn look
upon his face.
"The doctor said he thought he had heard a shot, and asked me what it
was, and I replied: 'Nothing. Only I was potting at the flames.' This
seemed to amaze him, as it would any sane man, I should think, and as no
doubt it is amazing you, Mr. Headland. Amazing you and making you think,
'What a fool the fellow is, after all!' Well, I showed the doctor the
revolver in my hand, and he laughingly said that he'd take it to bed
with him, in case I should start potting at _him_ by mistake. Then I
got into bed, after making him promise he wouldn't breathe a word to
anybody of what had occurred, as the others would be sure to laugh at
me; and--that's all."
"H'm. And quite enough, too, I should say," broke in Cleek, as the man
finished. "It sounds true enough, believe me, from your lips, and I know
you for an honourable man; but--what sort of a credence do you think an
average jury is going to place upon it? D'you think they'd believe you?"
He shook his head. "Never. They'd simply laugh at the whole thing, and
say you were either drunk or dreaming.
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