Jacques did not seem to be fully convinced of this view. He said,—
“You think that possible?”
“Unfortunately, it is but too certain; and, if I say unfortunately, it is because here we have to meet a terrible charge, the most decisive, by all means, that has been raised, one on which M. Galpin has not insisted (he is much too clever for that), but one which, in the hands of the prosecution, may become a terrible weapon.”
“I must confess,” said Jacques, “I do not very well see”—
“Have you forgotten the letter you wrote to Miss Dionysia the evening of the crime?” broke in M. Magloire.
Jacques looked first at one, and then at the other of his counsel.
“What,” he said, “that letter?”
“Overwhelms us, my dear client,” said M. Folgat. “Don’t you remember it? You told your betrothed in that note, that you would be prevented from enjoying the evening with her by some business of the greatest importance, and which could not be delayed? Thus, you see, you had determined beforehand, and after mature consideration, to spend that evening in doing a certain thing. What was it? ‘The murder of Count Claudieuse,’ says the prosecution. What can we say?”
“But, I beg your pardon—that letter. Miss Dionysia surely has not handed it over to them?”
“No; but the prosecution is aware of its existence. M. de Chandore and M. Seneschal have spoken of it in the hope of exculpating you, and have even mentioned the contents. And M. Galpin knows it so well, that he had repeatedly mentioned it to you, and you have confessed all that he could desire.”