“Did you hear that, Crochard?” asked the lawyer.
But the accused had recovered his self-control by a great effort; and he replied,—
“I am not deaf.” And there was in his voice the unmistakable accent of the former vagabond of Paris. “I hear perfectly well; only I don’t understand.”
The magistrate, finding that, where he was seated, he could not very well observe Crochard, had quietly gotten up, and was now standing near the mantle-piece, against which he rested.
“On the contrary,” he said severely, “you understand but too well Lieut. Champcey says you are the man who tried to drown him in the Dong-Nai. He recognizes you.”
“That’s impossible!” exclaimed the accused. “That’s impossible; for”—
But the rest of the phrase remained in his throat. A sudden reflection had shown him the trap in which he had been caught,—a trap quite familiar to examining lawyers, and terrible by its very simplicity. But for that reflection, he would have gone on thus,—
“That’s impossible; for the night was too dark to distinguish a man’s features.”
And that would have been equivalent to a confession; and he would have had nothing to answer the magistrate, if the latter had asked at once,—
“How do you know that the darkness was so great on the banks of the Dong-Nai? It seems you were there, eh?”