“He never died. He was saved, to grow up a hopeless cripple, and that was he you murdered last night.”
He closed his eyes again, and I saw his ashen lips moving.
“Oh, man,” I cried, “are you praying? Take grace of repentance and humble your wicked soul at the last. I can’t believe you innocent of a share in the wretchedness of this wretched house. I am the only one left of it—broken and lost to hope, but I forgive you—do you understand?—I forgive you.”
“I never killed the boy,” he muttered in a low, suffering tone, and with his eyes still closed.
“Will you tell me all you know about it? If you are guiltless, be merciful as you hope for mercy.”
“Modred found the cameo—picked it up—he told me himself—in this very room—where—your father must have dropped it.”
I cried “yes” passionately, and implored him to go on.
“He—the old man—that night—accused me of stealing it. It was the first—I’d heard of it. Presently—he fell asleep—in his chair. I thought I would—seize the opportunity to—look for it over the house—quietly. Finding myself—outside—the boy’s room—I went in to see—how—he—was getting on. He was awake—and—there was the very thing—in his hand. I asked him how—he had come by it. He told me. I demanded it—of him—said—your father had—promised it me. Nothing—availed—availed.”
He was gasping and panting to such a degree that I thought even now he would die, leaving the words I maddened for unspoken. Brutally, in my torment, I urged him on.
“He—wouldn’t give it up. I rushed at him—he put it in his mouth—and—as I seized him, tried to swallow it—and choked. It had stuck at—the entrance to his gullet. In a few moments—in his state he was too—weak to expel it—he was dead. Perhaps—I might have saved him—but the trinket—the beautiful trinket!”