“Mr. Shearman,” said Bourne, in a whining tone, “surely you are not serious?”
“Ah, but I am. I’ve my own way of doing business. It’s different, perhaps, to the ways of detectives of this country, and I must inform you that I hold in my possession a warrant for your apprehension upon the charge of wilfully murdering Clara Wagstaff.”
“But I am not Wagstaff, Shearman; you are mistaken. I swear you are mistaken.”
“Don’t swear, doctor; you will not be benefitted by so doing. There is no help for it; you will have to meet the charge.”
Bourne looked down upon the floor in all but hopeless despair.
He remained silent for a brief period; then, as if suddenly something had occurred to him, he raised his head, and glancing at his companion, said in a conciliatory tone—
“Let us arrange this matter, Mr. Shearman. Give me a little time, and I shall then be in a position to prove my innocence. As far as recompense is concerned, you had better name your own terms.”
“I never accepted a bribe from any man,” said Shearman, indignantly, “and it is not likely I should do so now. You are my prisoner!”
“My God, this is indeed horrible!” exclaimed the conscious-stricken man, falling into a chair in a perfect state of prostration.
“I cannot help you, doctor, but you had better meet the charge like a man. It is of no use attempting to shirk it; the matter has gone too far for that, and the weight of evidence too strong.”