"Yes."

   "What was its condition? Did it show that it had been fired?"

   "No; it was clean."

   "It was clean," repeated Paige. "I understand that it was a double-barreled, muzzle-loading shotgun. Were there any rags about?"

   "Yes."

   "Where were they?"

   "One was in the ashes of the fireplace."

   "Look as if some one had tried to hide it?"

   "Yes"—reluctantly.

   "If it was that sort of gun, there must have been a shot-pouch and powder-flask. Where were they?"

   "In the drawer where Jim keeps them."

   "Everything looked, then, as if no shot had been fired?"

   "Yes."

   "Was there any one besides yourself and your son in the house?"

   "No."

   "Your housekeeper?"

   "She had stepped out."

   "To the best of your knowledge, then, there was no one about to fire the shot except your son?"

   "No."

   "That will do," said Paige, with an accent of finality. "That is," he added, with the air of one who observes a courteous form, "unless some of the grand jurors wish to ask a question."

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