Mordaunt's hand fell from him. He stood a moment, then turned and walked away. "So that was the reason!" he said.
He came to a stand a few feet away from the bent figure at the writing-table, took out his cigarette-case, and deliberately lighted a cigarette. His face as he did it was grimly composed, but there were lines in it that very few had ever seen there. His eyes were keen and cold as steel. They held neither anger nor contempt, only a tinge of humour inexpressibly bitter.
Finally, through a cloud of smoke, he spoke again. "Have you nothing to say?"
Bertrand stirred, but he did not lift his head. "Nothing," he muttered, almost inarticulately.
"Then"—very evenly came the words—"that ends the case. I have nothing to say, either. You can go as soon as you wish."
He spoke with the utmost distinctness. His head was tilted back, and his eyes, still with that icy glint of amusement in them, watched the smoke ascending from his cigarette.
There was a brief pause. Then Bertrand stumbled stiffly to his feet. He seemed to move with difficulty. He turned heavily towards the Englishman.
"Monsieur," he said with ceremony, "you have—I believe—the right to prosecute me."
Mordaunt did not even look at him. "I believe I have," he said.
"Alors—" the Frenchman paused.