Uncle Abner
tell us truth!' How much truth, in all this discourse, have you told us?"
"Now, Abner," cried the man, "if it is truth you seek, and not the imaginations of a theory, how much could there be in it? If it were not for the granite ledges of reality, one might blow iris-colored bubbles of the fancy and watch them, in their beauty, journey to the stars! But alas, they collide with the hard edges of a fact and puff out.
"To begin with, the pistols have not been fired!"
"One could reload a pistol," replied my uncle.
"But one could not shoot a man, Abner, and leave no mark of the bullet on his body!"
He paused and addressed the old doctor.
"I sent for Storm, when I sent for Randolph, to rid me of every innuendo of a gossip. Ask him if there is a mark of violence on my brother's body."
The old man lifted his lined, withered face.
"There is no mark on him!" he said.
Vespatian Flornoy leaned across the table.
"Are you sure?" he said. "Perhaps you might be mistaken."
The words were in the taunting note of Elijah to the priests of Baal.
The old man made a decisive gesture. "Voilà!" he said, "I have handled a thousand dead men! I am not mistaken!"
Vespatian Flornoy put up his hands as in a great, hopeless gesture.
"Alas, Abner," he said, "we must give up this
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