"That untruth will not serve," I said coldly. "Felix is before me, and Francis is lying dead at the Fen Inn."
"What, Francis dead?" he cried unguardedly.
"Ah! you admit it is Francis!"
"No, I don't," he retorted quickly. "I only re-echoed your words. What do you mean by saying such a thing?"
For answer I rose from my seat and made for the door. The farce wearied me.
"Where are you going, Denham?" he asked, following me up.
"For the police!" I answered, facing him. "Yes, I am determined to find out the mystery of Francis Briarfield's death. You, his brother, decline to help me, so I shall place the matter in the hands of the authorities!"
"Upon my soul, Denham," said Felix, detaining me, "you are either mad or drunk. I declare most solemnly that I am Francis Briarfield. From this story of yours I should think it was my brother Felix who is dead, did I not know he is in Paris."
"A fine story, but it does not impose on me," I answered scoffingly. "Listen to me, Briarfield. Your brother Francis went out to South America some six months ago. Before he went he was engaged to Miss Bellin. The mother would not hear of the marriage, so the engagement was kept quiet. You alone knew of it and took advantage of such knowledge to suppress the letters sent to Miss Bellin through you by Francis, and represent yourself to Olivia as her lover returned three months before his time. You, I quite believe, are supposed to be in Paris, so that you may the more easily carry out the game."
"This is mere raving!"