The Lieutenant of Police repeated the inquiry. "I—I know of only one person, Monsieur," stammered the boutillier, "and—and——"
He was silent: a stern look from Père Jacques arrested the words upon his lips, and he said no more.
"And that person?"
"Pardon, M. le Lieutenant, but—but I will not say."
"Answer, I command you," said the officer, "in the name of the King."
"It is—M. le Chevalier de Fontanel!" gasped the terrified peasant.
"You hear this, Monsieur," said the Lieutenant. "What answer do you make? Have you had a quarrel with the late Baron?"
"I acknowledge—that is—I——" faltered the young man in evident confusion and dismay.
"Enough, Monsieur. Appearances, I regret to say, are against you. You arrive late; your dress is disordered; your apparel is blood-stained, and your hand is wounded. I am grieved beyond measure; but I am compelled to arrest you on the charge of murder."