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The extraordinary event had happened so swiftly that the attorney for the prosecution had not been able to interpose an objection. Now the nephew of the dead man spoke hurriedly, in whispers, and the attorney arose.

“I object to this irregular proceeding,” he said. “If this person is a witness, let her be sworn in the usual manner and let her take her place in the witness-chair where she may be examined by the attorney whom the court may see fit to appoint for the defense.”

It was evident that Mr. Thompson, urging the prosecutor, was alarmed. The folds of his obese neck lying above the collar of his coat took on a deeper color, and his mouth visibly sagged as with some unexpected emotion. He felt that he was becoming entangled in some vast, invisible net spread about him by this girl who had appeared as if by magic before the Hotel Markheim.

The judge looked down at the attorney. “I will have the witness sworn,” he said, “but I shall not at present appoint anybody to conduct an examination. When a prisoner before me has no counsel, I sometimes look after his case myself.”

He spoke to the girl. “Will you hold up your hand?” he said.

“Why, yes, monsieur,” she said, “if you will also ask Mr. Thompson to hold up his hand.”

“Do you wish him sworn as a witness?” said the judge.

The girl hesitated. “Yes, monsieur,” she said, “if that is the way to have him hold up his hand.”

Again Thompson was disturbed. Again he spoke to the prosecutor and again that attorney objected.

“We have not asked to have Mr. Thompson testify in this case,” he said. “It is true Mr. Thompson is concerned about the result of this trial. He is the nephew of the decedent and his heir. It is only natural that he should properly concern himself to see that the assassin is brought to justice.”

He spoke to the girl. “Do you wish to make Mr. Thompson your witness?” he said.

And again she replied with the hesitating formula:

“Why, yes, monsieur, if that is the way to cause him to hold up his hand.”

The judge turned to the clerk. “Will you administer the oath to these two persons?” he said.

Thompson rose. His face was disconcerted and slack. He hesitated, but the prosecutor spoke to him. Then he faced the judge and put up his hand. Immediately the girl cried out:

“Look, monsieur,” she said. “It is his left hand he is holding up!”

Immediately Thompson raised the other hand. “I beg your pardon, Your Honor,” he muttered. “I am left-handed; I sometimes make that mistake.”

And again the girl cried out: “You see . . . you notice it . . . it is true, then . . . he is left-handed.”

“I see he is left-handed,” said the judge, “but what has that to do with the case?”

“Oh, monsieur,” she said, “it has everything to do with it. I will show you.”

She moved up on the step before the judge’s bench and laid the menu before him. The attorney for the prosecution also arose. He wished to prevent this proceeding, to object to it, but he feared to disturb the judge and he remained silent.

“Monsieur,” she said, “I have made a little drawing . . . I know how such things are done . . . . My father was juge d’instruction of the Canton of Vaud. He always made little drawings of places where crimes were committed. . . . Here you will see,” and she put her finger on the card, “the narrow passage leading from the butler’s pantry into the dining-room used for a library. You will notice, monsieur, that the writing-table stood with one end against the wall, the left wall of the room, as one enters from the butler’s pantry. It is a queer table. One side of it has a row of drawers coming to the floor and the other side is open so one may sit with one’s knees under it. On the night of the tragedy this table was sitting at right angles to the left wall, that is to say, monsieur, with this end open for the writer’s knees close up against the left wall of the room. That meant, monsieur, that on this night Mr. Marsh was sitting at the table with his back to the passage from the butler’s pantry, close up against the left wall of the room.