"Fool! A detective is in there, and it was he who left that warrant to arrest you on the table."
He saw that he was lost beyond hope.
"Must I die, then?" he muttered.
"Yes, you must; but before you die write a confession of your crimes, for the innocent may be suspected—"
He sat down mechanically, took the pen which Laurence held out to him, and wrote:
"Being about to appear before God, I declare that I alone, and without accomplices, poisoned Sauvresy and murdered the Countess de Tremorel, my wife."
When he had signed and dated this, Laurence opened a bureau drawer; Hector seized one of the brace of pistols which were lying in it, and she took the other. But Tremorel, as before at the hotel, and then in the dying Sauvresy's chamber, felt his heart fail him as he placed the pistol against his forehead. He was livid, his teeth chattered, and he trembled so violently that he let the pistol drop.
"Laurence, my love," he stammered, "what will—become of you?"
"Me! I have sworn that I will follow you always and everywhere. Do you understand?"
"Ah, 'tis horrible!" said he. "It was not I who poisoned Sauvresy—it was she—there are proofs of it; perhaps, with a good advocate—"