“Who killed Modred?” I said.
He gave a great start; then a laugh.
“You’re the one to answer that,” he said.
“You lie, as you always do. My eyes have been opened at last—at last, do you hear? Modred was never drowned. He recovered and was killed by other means during the night.”
His affectation of merriment stopped, cut through at a blow. A curious spasm twitched his face.
“Well,” he muttered, looking down, away from me, “that may be true and you none the less guilty.”
“A hateful answer and quite worthy of you,” I said, quietly. “Nevertheless, you know it, as well as I do, to be a brutal falsehood.”
I seized him by the shoulder and forced him to lift his hangdog face.
“My God!” I whispered, awfully, “I believe you killed him yourself.”
It burst upon me with a shock. Why should he not have done it? His resentment over Zyp’s preference was as much of a motive with him as with me—ten thousand times more so, taking his nature into account and the immunity from risk my deed had opened to him. I remembered the scene by the river, when Zyp was drowning, and my hand shook as I held him.