"Ay, how came he by his death? I am not so ignorant as you suppose. I have made inquiries about you; there are men on this estate who bear you no good will. You are here, not as a guest, but an interloper. You and my brother were strangers a few short weeks ago, and you forced yourself upon him and lived here, a beggar, eating his food, drinking his wine, and paying for them neither in service nor money. That is a creditable part to be played by one who calls himself an English gentleman. Summoned here by M. Anthony Bidaud--I have in my pocket the letter he wrote to our sister--I hasten on the wings of love, tarrying not on the road, but wearing myself near to death in order that I may satisfy his longing desire to embrace me. I meet you by accident on the river's bank, and I perceive that you regard yourself as master here. The river is yours, the land is yours, my brother is yours, his daughter Annette is yours--ah, you wince at that. All this you proclaim in your lordly way, and patronise me--me, whose rightful place you would have usurped. Before meeting you pass my sister, resting in her labour of love, and you offer her charity--you, a beggar, pass this insult upon a lady who, under my direction, will educate my dear brother's little daughter, and teach her--principles. You leave me by the river; I, guileless, unsuspicious, a child in innocence, calmly take my bath, and reflect with delight upon the joy of my brother when he takes me to his arms. Walking to this house, I meet a labourer, whose name is Rocke. He tells me something of you; he directs me to my brother's private room. I open the door; I see you standing by my brother's side. You are in a state of fear and agitation; your face is white, your limbs tremble. I hear you ask the question, 'Can this be death?' To whom or to what do you address this enquiry? To your conscience, for you believe yourself to be alone; you are unconscious that I am present 'Can this be death?' I convince myself, and you. It is death. I am deprived of the opportunity of saying to my brother that I forgive him for the wrong he did me in the past. It is most cruel, and you have robbed me of the opportunity; but, before I forget it, I will chance the efficacy of my forgiveness, though he be dead." With a mock humility shocking to witness, he extended his hands, and, looking upwards, said, "Brother, I forgive you. I return to my argument. What passed between you and my brother before I entered this room? Again I ask, how came he by his death! If it is not a natural end, who is the murderer?"
In hot indignation Basil started forward, but by a great effort of will restrained himself. He had been appalled by the careless mocking tone in which Gilbert Bidaud had spoken, by his false assumption of a grief he did not feel, by the evident enjoyment he derived from the glaring insincerity of his professions. For no two things could be more distinctly at variance than Gilbert Bidaud's words and the tone in which he uttered them. It exhibited a refinement of malice, and, what rendered it more revolting, of malice in which the intellectual quality was conspicuous.
"It is well," continued Gilbert Bidaud, "that you exercise self-control. I might call aloud for help; I might, in less time than it takes me to speak it, create in this room the evidences of a struggle, in the course of which I might fire my revolver, produced for self-defence; I might inform those who would break the door down--it is locked by you, remember--that you attempted to murder me, even as you-- Ah, I perceive you understand. Yes, all this I might do, and you would be in the toils. Do not move until I have done with you, or you will be in deadly danger. In such parts of the world as this, exasperated men often proceed hastily to summary justice, and it might be executed upon you. I am teaching you lessons, as I shall teach my dear niece Annette, principles. You are young; I, alas, am old. I have nothing to learn; you have much. Tell me, you hanger-on in this house, you beggar of my brother's hospitality, what passed between you and him before I entered this room?"
"Nothing," replied Basil, confounded by the possibilities of a ruthless malice with which Gilbert Bidaud had threatened him. "I have already informed you that when I entered the room he was dead."
"What brought you here?"
"I came by appointment," said Basil. He no longer doubted that the man before him was Anthony Bidaud's brother; and he was surprised that he had not detected the resemblance upon his first meeting with Gilbert.
"What was the nature of the appointment?"
"He wished me to read a letter he intended to write to his lawyer."
"Ah, ah! He intended to write to his lawyer. May I ask this lawyer's name?"
"It is there upon an envelope."