“And that?” inquired Gratz as the Sepoy paused.
“A lapse of memory,” replied the Sepoy.
“A lapse of memory!” repeated Gratz.
“Yes. Unlock these handcuffs and forget that you have done so.”
A sudden irradiation seemed to shoot from the gem. It was the impulse communicated by the trembling hand of the detective, who, either to conceal the flush that was gradually transforming his pallid face, or from his reluctance to remove his gaze, continued to hold the brilliant in much the same oblivious regard as that bestowed upon it by the unhappy Raikes.
Gratz was having the struggle of his life.
The veins fretted through his temples with frightful distinction; his forehead was moist with a profuse perspiration; his breath labored with intermittent entrance and egress.
His well-known apathy, his exasperating negation of demeanor, where were they now?
Gradually, however, in the manner of disheartened stragglers whipped again into the firing line, there shadowed in his expression evidences of moral recovery which the Sepoy did not like.
The professional instincts of the detective, reinspired by his better nature, were making some very obvious appeals.