The young man, gifted as he was with the keenest susceptibilities, perceived this, and his head drooped.
"I shall add nothing to and take nothing from what I have said," was his dogged remark. "Make of it what you will."
The inspector who was conducting the inquiry glanced dubiously at Mr. Gryce as these words left Thomas Adams's lips; whereupon the detective said:
"We are sorry you have taken such a resolution. There are many things yet left to be explained, Mr. Adams; for instance, why, if your brother slew himself in this unforeseen manner, you left the house so precipitately, without giving an alarm or even proclaiming your relationship to him?"
"You need not answer, you know," the inspector's voice broke in. "No man is called upon to incriminate himself in this free and independent country."
A smile, the saddest ever seen, wandered for a minute over the prisoner's pallid lips. Then he lifted his head and replied with a certain air of desperation:
"Incrimination is not what I fear now. From the way you all look at me I perceive that I am lost, for I have no means of proving my story."
This acknowledgment, which might pass for the despairing cry of an innocent man, made his interrogator stare.
"You forget," suggested that gentleman, "that you had your wife with you. She can corroborate your words, and will prove herself, no doubt, an invaluable witness in your favor."
"My wife!" he repeated, choking so that his words could be barely understood. "Must she be dragged into this—so sick, so weak a woman? It would kill her, sir. She loves me—she——"