“I hope so, sincerely,” murmured Alan, who sat back in his chair with folded arms, and allowed Dick to conduct the conversation.
The journalist wasted no time in preliminary explanations, but bluntly set forth the whole story from the time he had entered that very room in November to report the murder, down to the moment when Marie departed from the Victoria station for Belstone via Lewes. Sorley still crouching and still haggard in looks, though stronger in voice, listened intently, but did not interrupt. Alan noticed, however, that at certain portions of the recital he trembled, probably from overstrained nerves. When Dick ended, and relighted his pipe, the old man nodded gravely.
“I am indeed in a dangerous position,” he said, striving to steady a voice that would quiver with ill-concealed alarm, “all the same I am entirely innocent. I swear to it.”
“A judge and jury will not believe in such swearing without proof,” said Fuller, shaking his head.
“Proof! Proof! What proof can I give? Only Louisa Grison can prove that the peacock was brought to The Monastery without my knowledge, and she hates me too greatly to confess as much. Do you think,” cried Sorley bitterly, “that she will spoil the trap she has set? Not she. I know her venomous nature too well.”
“There’s the letter, you know,” Dick reminded him.
“Yes! The letter. I don’t deny the letter, which that Judas of a boy showed to you. He betrayed me——”
“And he saved you,” interpolated Alan quickly.
“For money in both cases,” sneered the other, “if the truth is to be found that lad knows it. If so, he is aware that I am guiltless, and thus he may have come to warn me because his conscience smote him.”
“I scarcely think that Jotty is sufficiently evolved to possess a conscience,” said Latimer dryly; “he helped you for the five pounds, as he betrayed you for the two pounds. It is all a question of money. But since you insist so strongly upon your innocence, Mr. Sorley, I should like to hear on what grounds you do so.”