"If," he said stoutly, "I am at liberty now to make my plain statement
of the facts, I do so. It was seven-thirty-five P.M. Miss Yorke was at
the instrument. I was here"--and he moved a step away. "The soldier
was there;" and he pointed. "The soldier began his audacity by--"
"But, good gracious," said Sir John, "you are going back to the very
beginning."
"For your proper understanding," said Dale, with determination, "I
must commence at the commencement. If, as promised, I am to be
heard--"
"But you _have_ been heard."
"Your pardon, sir. You have examined me, but I have made no
statement."
"Oh, very well." Sir John, as well as the other two, assumed an
attitude of patient boredom. "Fire ahead, then, Mr. Dale."
And, bowing, Dale plunged into his long-pondered oration. Their three
faces told him that he was failing. Not a single point seemed to
score. He was muddled, hopeless, but still brave. He struggled on
stanchly. With a throbbing at his temples, a prickly heat on his
chest, a clammy coldness in his spine--with his voice sounding harsh
and querulous, or dull and faint--with the sense that all the
invisible powers of evil had combined to deride, to defeat, and to
destroy him--he struggled on toward the bitterly bitter end of his
ordeal.
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