"Cannot answer me?"
"Cannot answer you," he reiterated, turning haggard about the eyes and lips.
"Then," I brokenly rejoined, "I had better leave this place; I do not see what more I have to do or say here."
"O God!" he cried, detaining me with a gesture full of agony and doubt. "Do not leave me so; let me think. Let me weigh the situation and see where I stand, in your eyes at least. Tell me what my enemy has said!" he demanded, his face, his very form, flashing with a terrible rage that seemed to have as much indignation as fear in it.
"Your enemy," I replied, in the steady voice of despair, "accuses you in so many words—of murder."
I expected to see him recoil, burst forth into cursing or frenzied declamation, by which men betray their inward consternation and remorse; but he did none of these things. Instead of that he laughed; a hideous laugh that seemed to shake the rafters above us and echoed in and out of the caverned recesses beneath.
"Accuses me?" he muttered; and it is not in language to express the scorn he infused into the words.
Stunned, and scarcely knowing what to think, I gazed at him helplessly. He seemed to feel my glance, for, after a moment's contemplation of my face, his manner suddenly changed, and bowing with a grim politeness full of sarcasm, he asked:
"And when did you see my enemy and hold this precious conversation in which I was accused of murder?"
"Yesterday afternoon," I answered. "During the time of your mother's funeral," I subjoined, startled by the look of stupefaction which crossed his face at my words.