"Monsieur, I see, does not trust me," he said, with an injured air. "Monsieur would know all and tell nothing. But no, certainly that will not be pleasing to me. Figure to yourself, monsieur. I am a Frenchman, me, I am a man of honour, is it not so? Monsieur knows all of the case; but I—eh! I may know something of good also. If monsieur shows me his heart, the heart of Jules Guinaud is open to him. There it is."
Not the heart of Monsieur Guinaud, but the statement of Monsieur Guinaud's feelings; so Fanks, seeing that he must either give confidence for confidence or remain ignorant, chose the former alternative, and spoke out.
"Very well, I will tell you what I think, but of course you will keep our conversation secret."
Judas blew an airy kiss with a light touch of the long fingers on his mouth, and laughed pleasantly.
"My faith, yes. Monsieur is the soul of honour, and I, Monsieur Fanks—eh, is it not the name?—I am the resemblance of that soul. What you speak this night drops into the open heart of me. Snip, as say you English, I close the heart. The talk is safe; but, yes—you understand."
"Then that's all right," said Fanks, grimly; "we may as well proceed to business. As Mr. Vosk translated to you, the papers say Melstane committed suicide—gave himself the death! Comprehend you, eh? Very well. I say no. It was a crime! Melstane was murdered."
"And by whom, monsieur?"
"That's what I've got to find out."
"And the opinion of monsieur?"
"I will explain. Melstane had a box of tonic pills with him, containing, when it left your shop, twelve pills."