“You know what you are accused of? They suspect that you fired at Lieut. Champcey with intent to kill.”
“That is an abominable lie!”
“So you say. How did you hear that the officers of ‘The Conquest’ had arranged a large hunting-party?”
“I had heard them speak of it at table d’hote.”
“And you left your service in order to attend this hunt, some twelve miles from Saigon? That is certainly singular.”
“Not at all; for I am very fond of hunting. And then I thought, if I could bring back a large quantity of game, I would probably be able to sell it very well.”
“And you would have added the profit to your other savings, wouldn’t you?”
Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, was stung by the point of this ironical question, as if he had received a sharp cut. But, as he said nothing, the magistrate continued,—
“Explain to us how the thing happened.”
On this ground the murderer knew he was at home, having had ample time to get ready; and with an accuracy which did great honor to his memory, or to his veracity, he repeated what he had told the surgeon on the spot, and at the time of the catastrophe. He only added, that he had concealed himself, because he had seen at once to what terrible charges he would be exposed by his awkwardness. And as he continued his account, warming up with its plausibility, he recovered the impudence, or rather the insolence, which seemed to be the prominent feature of his character.